The Unknown Man
by suzjazz
Summary: After a serious and unresolved argument with Patrick Jane regarding their future together, Teresa Lisbon meets a man who becomes her admirer. Jane is sent on an undercover mission involving a mysterious blonde. The style is a mixture of Henry James and Raymond Chandler. Some sexual scenes, so don't read it if you are squeamish.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own The Mentalist.

The lovely dark-haired woman in her forties sat at her desk at the FBI, looking distracted and trying to appear busy. Across the room, lying sprawled on a brown leather couch, an indolent man, also in his forties, was staring at the ceiling and avoiding eye contact with the woman. Unlike his co-workers who all wore suits, this man was dressed casually in a rumpled white shirt, dark jacket and pants, and very old and worn shoes with new wool socks which were a gift from the dark-haired woman. The man was handsome in a scruffy way, with more than a day's growth of beard, tousled blond curly hair, and slightly squinting, sharp sea-blue eyes which noticed and observed everything. He was of middle height, but taller than the woman, who was petite and slender, but who possessed a physical strength which belied her delicate appearance. She was impeccably dressed in a dark blue pantsuit and silk shirt. She had large, light green, almost transparent eyes, an exquisite nose, slightly parted lips barely concealing perfect white teeth, and a pale Irish complexion sprinkled here and there with freckles. Her long dark hair was pinned back in a bun, but it didn't make her look severe. Her physical appearance was one of beauty without any flaw. Several of the men in the office would crane their necks to get a glimpse of her, but she never returned their glances except to smile faintly and say hello in passing.

Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane (for those were their names) were not speaking to one another because they had quarreled a few days before, and both were deeply hurt and offended. They had quarreled because they were in love, but not lovers, both too shy to initiate a romantic relationship, and unsure how to speak to each other, since Teresa had once been Patrick's boss at the California Bureau of Investigation for ten years; she had been a police detective and senior agent, and he was a consultant. Events then transpired which forced Patrick to flee the United States as a fugitive wanted for murder, and he lived for two years on an island off Venezuela.

He never expected to return to his native country, but the FBI tracked him down and made him an offer to drop all charges against him if he would work for them. This was because Patrick was a mentalist with an extraordinary gift for reading people, coupled with genius-level intelligence and experience in being a con man and fake psychic. He closed every case he worked on rapidly and often almost single-handedly.

And she had the misfortune to fall in love with him.

It happened so gradually that she didn't even notice it. She thought they were just close friends, they worked together as partners, and of course he wasn't emotionally available because he still loved his dead wife-he still wore his wedding ring. She understood. She even understood his desire for revenge and vigilantism, though she didn't condone it. She was a woman who had a deep faith in God and a love for the innocent who are harmed every day by the guilty. She had the determination to stop the guilty ones, her belief in The Law being almost as strong as her belief in God.

Yet slowly but surely, Patrick Jane was undermining her faith in the justice system. He held it in contempt, and often told her that doing the right thing would necessitate breaking the law. She had on occasion, even before she met him, surreptitiously broken the law, but only to protect the powerless when the law failed them. She was malleable, not rigid. And Patrick could read her, no matter how she tried to hide her secrets and her personal life. She often felt naked under his gaze, terribly uncomfortable and blushing when he revealed knowledge of things that he couldn't possibly know.

Twelve years previously, when Patrick was making a good living as a psychic, he made the terrible mistake of going on television and insulting California's most notorious serial killer, who went by the name of Red John. When Patrick returned that evening he discovered the bodies of his wife and young daughter gruesomely murdered, and an angry note from the serial killer. Thus began his ten year quest for revenge against Red John. After Patrick had a breakdown and spent some time in a mental hospital he determined to read the police files on the killer.

This was how he met Teresa Lisbon, who convinced her superiors to hire him as a consultant after witnessing his remarkable powers of observation and deduction. Patrick was determined to capture and kill Red John, and this constituted his first major disagreement with Teresa: she wanted the killer brought to justice and tried by a jury, then sentenced to prison or possibly to death. Patrick was an outlaw and respected no moral code but his own. Nonetheless, she kept him on as a consultant even though she knew that eventually he would ruin her career because he constantly alienated and insulted important people in the course of his investigations. She struggled with her conscience, but finally decided that it was worth ultimately giving up her career if lives could be saved and criminals brought to justice because of this strange, stubborn, angry, vengeful man.

She knew Jane would ruin his life if he were allowed to murder Red John. But when she became fully aware of the terrifying power wielded by this warped and demented man, she realized that his network of minions was so extensive that there was no prison that could hold him for long. Not only was he a serial killer, he was also the ringleader of a vast organization of criminal police and FBI agents known as the Blake Association (after William Blake, their password being "Tiger, tiger.") The Blake Association might never have been discovered if not for Patrick's relentless pursuit of information on Red John.

She became convinced that he must be killed, but Patrick must not be the one to do it. She could shoot him in self-defense or to save Patrick, and being an officer of the law, she would be within her rights. But when it came time for the fateful act, Patrick duped her so that she was unable to accompany him, even though she pleaded with him to allow her. If she didn't love him, she could have cuffed him and sent her team to find Red John and dispose of him. The truth was, part of her wanted him to get his vengeance.

They were two very different people.

Although Teresa didn't know it, Patrick began to love her from the moment they met. He didn't know it either. But he was drawn to her from the first and instinctively wanted to protect her-he even shot and killed a man who would have given him information on Red John because this man would have killed Teresa. She didn't want to be protected. She was fierce. She could take down men twice her size and she was the only fearless person he had ever known. The only thing she was afraid of was her own feelings. The one thing he could never quite read in her was the true nature of her feelings for him, which she kept well guarded under a cloak of professionalism. She insisted that all members of her team use surnames only; they called her "Boss," except for Jane, who would not recognize any authority. So they were "Jane" and "Lisbon" to each other, they addressed each other curtly and professionally, and they never spoke of their feelings.

This continued until Patrick finally killed Red John, strangling him with his bare hands. Teresa aided and abetted him knowing that she could be arrested as an accessory and sent to prison, but he didn't want her involved, and to protect her he tricked her and lied to her. But before he killed Red John, he told her that she had no idea what she meant to him. He had once, long ago, said "Love you" and then denied remembering having said it. The former con man was like quicksilver rushing through Teresa's hands. She could never make him be still long enough to tell her anything meaningful. And he'd conned her. Hurt her. Then disappeared with out saying goodbye.

But then he wrote to her. Every day. And sent the letters through friends who delivered them safely to her. She read the letters in front of the fire in the evenings, smiling through tears. She never expected to see him again. But she could not love another man.

And that, reader, is the backstory. Well, some of it. To tell all would require a separate novel. Suffice it to say that when he did finally return, their reunion was joyous, she forgave him everything, and now they were on an equal footing: she was no longer his boss. But were they still friends? Did they want to be more to each other? Their awkwardness made them dumb on this subject. And Patrick still wore his wedding ring. He still didn't give a name to his feelings for Teresa. He still called her "Lisbon." He had no idea how much she meant to him, either.

And then he was sent undercover to investigate a drug dealing organization. His job was to seduce a beautiful young blonde woman who was important in rounding up the principals in the case. At first he didn't want to do it. He'd been granted a full pardon in response to his demands, so he was a free man and could quit the FBI any time he wanted: he had succeeded in forcing them to accept him on his terms. But he didn't want to leave or be fired (he doubted they would fire him because they needed his skills too much) He wanted to solve cases with Lisbon. But solving cases meant he had to obey orders-up to a point. And now that he and Lisbon weren't speaking because she had been so unreasonable, he thought it might be good to make her jealous. She didn't appreciate what he'd done for her.

He could only think of Teresa. No other woman even remotely interested him. But since he had returned, she seemed different. He was accustomed to her agreeing to his demands, bending under the force of his will. Now she did not hesitate to tell him that he could not take her for granted, that she had her own life, that she didn't want him making decisions for her. She had said that he ran away from her.

_But I ran back, he protested._

_How was I supposed to know? I thought you were gone again forever._

_Okay, you're right. I'm sorry, Lisbon. I didn't think about you._

_Well you rarely do._

_Well that's not true_._. I made you one of my demands. I'm not joining the FBI unless they make you a job offer._

_That's my point. What makes you think I'd want to work with you again? You are difficult and exhausting, and maybe I don't want to put the rest of my life on hold to be your sidekick. Have you ever even thought about that?_

_No. I hadn't considered it._

_You think you know what's good for my life. But you haven't been a part of my life for two years._

He had felt the sting of it, because hadn't he written her letters? Hadn't he missed her every single day?

But she would have retorted, That's not the same as being there in person.

Well, he couldn't be there. He'd have been arrested and thrown into prison.

And he'd intended to leave that life behind, including her, until he found that he couldn't live without her.

When the FBI made their offer to him on the island, he presented his terms. First and foremost, he wasn't working for them without Lisbon. They had to hire her too. She was living in Washington State, working as a small-town sheriff, a job that was an insult to a woman of her brilliance and skill. He knew she couldn't be happy in a job like that. The FBI would provide the stimulation and challenge, the excitement she missed from her years with the CBI. It was his fault that she couldn't go back. He owed it to her to get her a real job. But of course the real reason was that he wanted her there with him. He hadn't even formed a plan of how he would approach her, what the nature of their relationship would be. He desired her. His previous contacts with women since his wife's death were meaningless. If he could have her, he would finally have a woman he loved, the only woman he could ever love.

But then Krystal came between them.

She was a woman in her late twenties, a dazzling blonde, tall and slim, elegant, refined. His cover was that he was an eccentric millionaire who liked beautiful women, fast cars, gambling, and racehorses. He asked her out to dinner.

Krystal turned thoughtful blue eyes upon him from across the small table in the luxurious restaurant. Waiters with nervous faces scurried around with plates of glistening aromatic food. Poached salmon, lamb chops, filet mignon, fine red wines, French cheeses, desserts. Patrick, now newly clean-shaven and wearing a beautifully tailored designer suit courtesy of the FBI, and new black shiny Italian loafers, but without Teresa's socks, smiled at her. It was a forced smile, a practiced fake smile, used to gain the confidence of widows and old ladies in order to relieve them of their money. But as it grew slowly across his serious face, it was like the sun coming from behind a cloud.

"You're not eating anything." He'd ordered for the two of them, and he had begun to eat with relish, but her plate remained untouched.

"Oh…I guess I just forget about food when I'm with a fascinating man." Her answering smile was also forced, just as practiced and fake as his.

"Hmmm…I guess I don't allow even a woman as intriguing as you to stop me from eating. It's delicious. Just try a bite of the steak. And the wine. It's a 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild. I know you'll love it."

She lifted the wine glass in her graceful hand and sipped delicately. "Wonderful. I do love it." She narrowed her eyes and looked directly into his. "So, you're an international man of mystery?"

"Not quite," he answered with a laugh. "I'm very boring. Nothing to do but count my money. You'd be amazed at how unexciting my life is."

"Were you ever married?"

"Yes. My wife died."

"I'm so sorry. Was she…was she beautiful?"

"Yes. And good. An angel."

Krystal's eyes were full of amusement. "Well, you'd better be prepared, I'm no angel."

"I'm tired of angels. I like a woman who can tempt me to do bad things."

"Such as?"

"Oh, I don't know. I have a lot of vices."

"I can't wait to see what they are."

Patrick Jane's face had begun to turn serious again, but he forced another smile.

"More wine?"

She held the glass out to him and he poured from the bottle.

"You haven't told me anything about yourself. Gorgeous woman like you must have men fighting over you. What do you do?"

"If I told you high-price escort, would you believe me?"

"No. I can tell you would never do anything like that. You don't have to sleep with men for money."

Her smile became a little less amused.

"You're right. I'm a woman of independent means. A poor little rich girl. My father left me a fortune. I've been trying to figure out how to spend it. I've already given quite a bit to charities."

"I thought you said you're no angel."

"I lied."

And so the conversation continued. The evening turned into night, and the other diners finished their desserts, paid their checks, and left. Patrick and Krystal were the last ones left in the sumptuous room, watching the dying candle flame flicker out.

"Shall we?" Patrick got up, graciously pulled out her chair, and offered her his arm in a courtly manner.

Half-drunk, she nestled her head on his shoulder as he circled her with his left arm.

He was clear-eyed and absolutely sober as they walked toward the hotel.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Someone was killing DEA agents. Three, to be exact, and the local police had run out of ideas and suspects in the murders. Teresa sat at her desk reading the police report with a frown. The fact that three agents had been killed with no leads was bringing out her impatience. She liked results, and she liked them immediately. She could not help thinking that her old team at the CBI would have been pursuing suspects by now. But this FBI…big on hierarchy, procedure, bureaucracy and paperwork, without much action in catching criminals. She sighed and wished there were a nearby window so she could see the bright fall day outside. By the time she left the building, it would be dark.

She would arrive home with no one to greet her at the door, not even a dog. She would take off her coat and hang it on a hook by the door, and then she'd change into her pajamas and bathrobe. She would have a light dinner-sometimes it was only cereal and milk, because she didn't like cooking. Sometimes she would take a bath. She often had a cup of herbal tea as she read her book before bed. She enjoyed the classic novels of Charlotte and Emily Bronte, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens. It would be past midnight before she turned off the light, alone in her queen-sized bed that a different woman might have found lonely. Teresa didn't mind living alone. During her years as Special Agent at the CBI, she was grateful to be alone after a long day of managing Patrick. Sometimes she felt as though she were married to the man-she cleaned up his messes, she made excuses for him, she took reprimands because of him. At least she wasn't expected to cook for him.

Teresa smiled at the thought of domesticity with Patrick. When she was in a certain mood, the prospect seemed delightful. But most of the time, being a woman of sense and practicality, she knew that she would not last long in a marriage to him unless he changed his very nature. She was not going to change _her _nature for any man. She'd spent twenty years trying to get men to take her seriously in an environment with few women in positions of authority. Many of the men thought privately that she was unfeminine-these were the sort of men who noticed the way a woman dressed but could not detect the hidden, observant, soft-spoken essence of who she was: her femininity. These were men who, although not coarse or ill-bred, would leer amongst themselves at the sight of a woman's bosom displayed just enough to raise the sap of their manhood.

This is why Teresa never displayed her bosom at work, nor did she wear much makeup or jewelry-only the gold cross that belonged to her mother. The average man would look at her and see a pretty woman. The unusually observant man would see a sweetness to her curved mouth, a fine intelligence in her eyes, a resolute tilt to her jaw. He would see that she was a rare beauty. "Pretty" is a totally inadequate word to describe her.

This woman possessed the power of true femininity. She demanded, and received, respect.

The result was that no man dared to approach her. Except Patrick Jane. But against him she built up a layer of reserve and reticence which even he could not penetrate. She feared for her own heart and dared not trust it to him. So she loved him in secret, in silence, from afar, and told herself that she was wise.

The next day there was a meeting of all the agents in her division, headed by Agents Abbott and Fischer. Abbott was a stern and exacting man who believed himself to be smarter than Patrick, but who had in fact been fooled by him several times. Agent Fischer was a tall, lean, angular woman with a skull face all cheekbones and wide forehead. Her catlike eyes and large sensual mouth were her only beautiful attributes, but she was skilled in the seduction so often necessary in undercover work. She, like Teresa, had worked many years to be taken seriously as a woman in a position of authority. But unlike Teresa, her way was to be cold and slightly insulting, a dominatrix whose whip was more often displayed than felt.

Patrick Jane sat in a leather chair with a smirk on his handsome face. Everyone else was sitting at attention, and he lolled, slumped in the chair with deliberate disobedience. Teresa knew he was working undercover in the DEA case but she had not been briefed on the details. She was too proud and too angry with him to ask him. She sat as far away from him as possible, but he stole glances at her when he thought she wasn't looking. She set her chin in determination and sat motionless and cold as a stone throughout the meeting. She was assigned to work with the local police. She thanked God that she was not responsible for Patrick.

When the meeting broke up, several men meandered into the room who were not FBI, casting furtive glances at the FBI's bounty: top of the line computers, electronic case boards, high end office furniture. From the way they skulked and regarded their surroundings with a mixture of envy and resentment, Teresa knew they were police even though they were not in uniform. Two of the men were middle aged, prematurely balding and bespectacled. A third was about thirty and extremely overweight from years at a desk job. The fourth caught her eye. With the absence of the envy/resentment felt by his colleagues, he was obviously at ease in the FBI office. He moved with a springing step as he came toward her.

"Agent Lisbon? Mark Johnson, Austin PD." He extended his hand to her. She strode forward and offered her hand to him.

"Nice to meet you! I guess we'll be working together. Any leads?" She covertly studied his face and body, a skill she'd developed and perfected until she was an expert. Full head of dark brown hair. Maybe forty. Tall and slim. Not exactly handsome, but pleasant-faced with an open, kind expression in his dark eyes.

"A few that we've been working on. Would you like some coffee before we begin reviewing what we've got so far?"

"I would love some coffee," Teresa replied. Mark disappeared into the office kitchen and came out shortly with a cup straight from the coffee urn. "How do you take it?"

"Black. Thank you."

She took the cup from him and felt its heat. Her fingers brushed his.

"Agent Lisbon, this is Officer Frank Harrison, and this is Officer Timothy O'Hara. Over there talking to Agent Fischer is Officer Danny Ortiz." Teresa nodded, smiling. "We're headed for the conference room down the hall after we all get our coffee and donuts. Oh, I forgot to ask you if you want one."

"Only if they have chocolate glazed ones."

"I'll go back and see…"

"Oh no, I was just kidding, no need. I'm good with just coffee." She smiled, her cheeks reddening a little.

Mark Johnson was not an ordinary man. He looked at her and saw the dignity of her rare beauty, and took note of the curve of her lips and the sea green of her eyes. He saw in them a quick intelligence, bemusement, honesty, and something else he couldn't quite identify. Was it vigilance? Guarded caution? It could even be fear. He suspected that something was troubling her. He'd heard that she was brilliant at detective work, that she had been instrumental in exposing the Blake Association when she was Special Agent at the now-defunct CBI. He had also heard that she had been romantically involved with her consultant and partner Patrick Jane, who also exposed the criminal gang. He was rumored to have killed the gang's ringleader, but all charges had been dropped in exchange for him working for the FBI. His extraordinary deductive powers of observation and unorthodox methods for getting confessions were legendary.

An hour later, the conference room was empty except for Mark. He had said goodbye to Teresa, looking at her with interest and admiration which she could not see because her back was turned to him as she left the room. He sat down at the large table and checked his voicemail. Just as he was about to leave a few minutes later, Patrick Jane sauntered into the room.

"I guess I've missed the action," he said to Mark, regarding him intensely for a few seconds

"Yes, I was just leaving." Mark had seen photos of Patrick and recognized him instantly. He got up from the table, walked over to the other man and held out his hand. "Hi, I'm Officer Mark Johnson. You're Patrick Jane, right? I'm working on the DEA case. I just met a friend of yours today. Teresa Lisbon."

Patrick's face was devoid of expression. Then he smiled broadly.

"Nice to meet you," he said, extending his hand. "Yes, she's something more than a friend."

"Oh, yeah, sure." Mark thought he should get away as quickly as possible.

"But we've had a disagreement, so you're free to ask her out, since you obviously want to."

Mark winced. Had he done anything to give it away? Actually, he hadn't even formulated the idea until Patrick put it into words.

"Listen, I wish I could talk longer, but I really have to leave. I'll see you on the case," he said.

"She likes men who wear turtlenecks," said Jane, still smiling as Mark Johnson left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Teresa found herself thinking about Mark. Mark was thinking about Theresa. And Patrick was thinking about Teresa and Mark together.

**Teresa**

_Mark seems nice enough,_ she thought. _Not bad looking and I can tell he likes me. I need to date._

She'd tried for a while after Jane left, but it depressed her. She couldn't get interested in a man other than Jane. She knew that she might never see him again-she had no idea where he was, even though he was writing her letters. He was careful not to betray his location. As a fugitive, he could not return to the U.S. without being arrested. At least, that was until he was found by the FBI and was offered a deal with the devil. Even if she'd known where he was, he would never have allowed her to join him. It was too dangerous for her: if she was discovered with him, she faced jail time as an accessory to murder. When he returned unexpectedly, she was joyful. But Jane had not changed. He was still controlling and secretive. And he ran away from her again. After their latest argument, she was determined to begin dating again. It broke her heart, but she had to get him out of her life.

She had always found relationships to be difficult. She was comfortable with long periods-years-of celibacy. Her beauty was of the chaste variety, a white rose in contrast to the red rose of passion. Men instinctively sensed this about her, and Patrick was no exception. She was a remarkably isolated woman, except from the CBI team she headed for ten years. She had no real friends except for Patrick. Not even a close girlfriend.

She had raised three brothers beginning after her mother's death when she was twelve years old, protecting them from their alcoholic, despairing and often violent father. They resented her because she was not their mother, as did her father, who never recovered from his wife's death. The young girl grew up without any adolescence, never allowed herself teenage joys, never got close enough to a boy to experience teenage sorrows. At the end of high school, she became involved with a boy a couple of years older, who fell in love with her and wanted to get married, but Teresa knew she was too young. She ended the romance. And that was the only romance for many years to come. In fact, all the men she became involved with after that were not men that she loved, and it was she who rejected them.

She was not sure how to give love. She was awkward with expressing feelings and was glad to be in police work and in a position to set policy: talking about one's personal life was unprofessional. Often, though, late at night as she lay in her lonely bed, Teresa wondered what it would be like to be married. Or even just in a relationship. She would realize that she was just lying to herself if she said that she had a life outside of work. If anyone had asked her if she ever felt lonely, she would say that she loved being alone, that her life was great and she wouldn't change a thing. But she was a woman who could not tell a convincing lie, and even she didn't believe herself. What kind of life did she really have?

_Work, a daily run, reading, watching TV, errands? A drink at a bar or restaurant alone? But do I want to get married? Have kids? Never really thought about it. No, not true, I have. Do I want Jane in my life? Been making my life a hell for all these years. More trouble than he's worth, really._

**Patrick**

The mentalist was not happy about Teresa and Mark together. He would never have admitted to being jealous, but he was. Part of the problem with admitting jealousy was that he was unaware that he was in love with her. They had been friends for so long, the very closest of friends who shared countless experiences fraught with danger. They worked on cases together which had very nearly killed one or both of them. They had saved each other's lives on more than one occasion. After this kind of experience, being lovers is anticlimactic, maybe even superfluous. Throughout his ten year long quest to find and kill Red John, he was aware that she would try to stop him. They were diametrically opposed to each other in their regard for the law. Patrick wanted his own personal vengeance and didn't care if he went to prison for it.

Patrick knew that he could cajole, wheedle, or fool her into doing what he wanted. He had early on sensed her weakness for him and her willingness to defend his often rude and indefensible behavior to her superiors. She resigned herself to years of paperwork generated by his bad behavior. She accepted the fact that one day he would get her fired. And all because she loved him. She told herself it was because he closed cases and brought closure to families of murder victims.

He was never sure if she was in love with him or not. He flirted with her relentlessly, teased her, played on her weaknesses, and persuaded her to ignore the law when necessary in order to "do the right thing." This man, who could deduce myriad details about someone from merely observing their body language, could not read Teresa. He could guess what she was thinking up to a point, but then he would hit a cold, blank, hard wall of resistance. She told him in no uncertain terms that she didn't want him getting into her head. But he wanted to. He was intrigued. Curious. Not in love! No, he would never love any woman but his dear dead Angela. She was peerless in her perfection and goodness.

Love was a luxury he couldn't afford as long as he lived for revenge. So he refused to even allow himself to think that Teresa was lovely to look at, that she was clever and sarcastic (he once told her that sarcasm is the lowest form of humor) that she was fearless and verbally combative in a way that he enjoyed. Her diminutive stature belied amazing physical strength and agility. She never allowed any man to take advantage of her. She had a polite, firm, dignified manner with everyone, and you knew that you couldn't get away with any nonsense. Unless you were Patrick Jane.

He would never forget the evening he saw her trying on a beautiful bridesmaid's gown which she had reluctantly agreed to wear to her agent Grace's wedding. He crept stealthily up to the door of her office where he knew she was changing her clothes. He was not without hopes that he might see a flash of breast or thigh. The door was unlocked, and he opened it. She jumped back, covering herself unnecessarily-the bodice discreetly covered her breasts, leaving only her elegant neck and shoulders bare. She glared at him.

_"Jeez, Jane! You mind knocking?"_

_"Oh, my."_

_"You look good. This is beautiful, like a princess- An angry little princess. Someone stole your tiara."_

Yes. She _was _an angry little princess. And even at that moment, he was unaware of his growing love for her. All he knew was that he hated Mark Johnson.

_Can't get a read on the man. Don't trust him. Something not quite right about him. Tracking that bastard. She finds out, she'll be mad, but she'll get over it. She'll realize that I'm doing it for her. Thinks she can take care of herself, but went alone to an abandoned house? Don't trust her judgement. Entirely too apt to rush to a crime scene alone. Damn lucky that Red John decided not to kill her that night. This guy could be a killer, for all she knows. She's just angry enough at me to date him for spite. Another cop. How predictable. Because who else is she going to meet? Not like she hangs out in museums or PTA meetings. Doesn't even go to basketball games. Only meets cops and other LE types. The Blake Association is regrouping. Could be one of them._

**Mark**

He had been married once, but after seven years it ended, and he drifted from one relationship to the next.

There were two women he had loved, but they left him. He was too nice. Too accomodating, too gentlemanly, and too forgiving. He had tolerated a lot of infidelity, and he had vowed never to tolerate it again. He didn't expect to fall in love again, and he regarded this philosophically. He had had his fun, maybe that was all he was destined to have. He didn't mind being alone. Though sometimes, he missed a woman's company. Police work is good for the solitary: it provides a partner who doesn't get too close, a disguise to hide any illegal or inappropriate activities, and of course the free donuts and coffee. The uniform commands respect and fear. He didn't mind being respected and feared.

_Teresa's lovely to look at. Been hoping to meet her for a long time. Now's my chance._


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Patrick and Krystal were enjoying cocktails on the outdoor terrace of the hotel. It was one of those fall days borrowed from June, full of soft mild sunlight. Hotel guests who passed by looked admiringly at the elegant young woman and the slightly dissipated but attractive middle-aged man with her. Krystal's long blonde hair flowed to her shoulders. It gleamed in the sun. She was wearing a white sundress from some fashion designer or other, and high heeled white sandals on her perfectly pedicured slender bare feet. She wore a gold and diamond bracelet and gold hoop earrings as her only ornaments. Patrick could not help comparing her to Lisbon (for she was now _Lisbon _again to him)who had no interest in clothes or jewelry; she wore only the gold cross her mother had given her, and she had refused to accept an emerald necklace and earrings that he had bought for her with his winnings at the poker table. She felt it would be improper, and Patrick didn't think she would wear the jewels even if she had accepted them. So he had taken them back, and he had kept them in a safe deposit box, waiting for the day he would offer them to her again and see her delighted face as she accepted them this time.

But since their quarrel, Lisbon no longer seemed as attractive to him. She was being stubborn, prissy, rigid, and unfair. _And _she didn't know how to dress. Even in a professional work suit, she always looked like she bought the cheapest garment off the rack. Of course she can't afford designer clothes, he thought, but she could have her clothes tailored to accentuate her petite and slender form. Lisbon's body was just as beautiful as that of the much younger blonde siren he'd taken to bed the night before. But Lisbon didn't want him. She'd made that clear. So, even though it had been Fischer's idea that he seduce Krystal for information, he didn't see why he shouldn't enjoy it.

Enjoy it he did, and she did as well. They spent a feverish night coupling in the throes of alcohol-induced passion. And, in Krystal's case, cocaine. She'd laid out the thin white lines of powder and offered it to him, but he refused. He couldn't wear a wire, so he had to get his evidence another way. He distracted her while he took a surreptitious photo of the cocaine on his cell phone. This only proved that she was a user. He suspected that she had something to do with the killings of the DEA agents. He'd been studying her and was convinced that she had killed before. He saw through her façade, cleverly maintained, of a naive woman attempting to appear sophisticated, a guileless beauty in search of thrills. She was an assassin; he just hadn't figured out yet how she did it. He liked her for all three murders. She was in the employ of a drug kingpin, that much was certain, someone who had a brilliant cover and many layers of "people" who served him and kept him isolated from the public except when he wanted visibility.

Krystal ordered two more vodka martinis. Patrick drank just enough not to make her suspicious.

"Mmmm, Patrick, this is so nice," she cooed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I bet you've done this with hundreds of other girls. You remind me of James Bond."

"Not so many. And believe me, I'm no James Bond."

"But you have some mysterious identity."

"Not so mysterious either."

"Who are you really?"

"Exactly who I said I am. Eccentric and bored millionaire, whiling away the time with booze and a beautiful woman. I might just make you a permanent fixture."

"What if I don't want to be?" But her eyes were teasing him.

"Suit yourself. You're a free woman. Free to go any time."

"But why would I go? I really, really like you, Patrick."

Patrick only smiled and said nothing in reply.

"What do you say we go back to the room and fuck some more?" Her eyes glinted with artificial lust.

"Now you're talking."

Patrick took her arm, kissed her neck and inhaled her fragrance, a floral which he could swear was an aphrodisiac. They spent the afternoon in bed, he had a few more drinks and she had more cocaine. At length, Krystal stretched and said, "I have to make a phone call. Be right back." She went out on the balcony and closed the sliding glass doors. He could see that she was on the phone with someone, but couldn't hear what she was saying.

Meanwhile, he had dressed, carefully concealing the small handgun he carried.

He was searching the floor for the socks Lisbon had given him when he sensed Krystal's return to the room. He turned and stood up, only to see her holding a gun on him.

"OK, Mr. Jane, game over," she said, her smile a sneer. "I know you're FBI. And you're here to find out who I work for, but I'm afraid he's a lot smarter than you. He's keeping a low profile."

Patrick raised his hands slowly over his head.

"It won't do you any good to kill me. I have no useful information regarding your boss. I'm only a consultant. Agents Fischer and Abbott are in charge of this investigation. They are at this very moment tracking my whereabouts and there are dozens of agents spread out in the area. You will be caught."

"I wouldn't bet money on that," said Krystal, still holding the gun on him.

"You're a malignant narcissist and you have to have the spotlight. You actually _want _to get caught so that the world appreciates your prowess in blowing an FBI consultant's cover. Not that great a coup. Now, holding Abbott or Fischer at gunpoint, that's something to brag about. But not me. I'm nobody."

"You got that right. And you'll be less than nobody very shortly."

From behind her, a woman's voice said menacingly: "Drop the gun. Drop it _now._"

It was Teresa Lisbon. On her heels was Kim Fischer. Both brandished weapons at Krystal, who sullenly put the gun down on the coffee table. Swiftly, Lisbon moved in and cuffed her.

"Nice work, Jane," said Kim Fischer with a wide smile and blank android eyes.

Lisbon said nothing. She led the suspect into the elevator leading to the FBI van parked outside the hotel.

Patrick watched Lisbon ignoring him and felt a pang of remorse. He hoped she'd never find out about what he'd done with Krystal. Her mind was penetrating enough to guess. _OK, so she guesses-she still doesn't have to know I enjoyed it! Probably done it with that bastard Johnson by now. Really have to get a phone trace on him._

Time for that little meeting with Wiley.

He suddenly noticed the socks balled up in the pants he'd thrown in a heap on the floor.

Damn her.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's note: I realize that although I started out in the style of Henry James, I ended up more in a Raymond Chandler vein and if I don't watch out, I might channel James Joyce. (Don't worry, I won't repeat the Molly soliloquy from Ulysses with Lisbon no matter how tempting.) I will be leaving for Ecuador on Monday for two weeks, and I plan to get a lot of writing done, but sometimes the best intentions come to naught, as Mr. James might say, so don't be surprised if there are no new chapters._

_I hope you don't mind the way the story is alternating between omniscient narrator and jumping around between characters' POV. In chapters to come I will be collaborating with my boyfriend, who prefers to be known by his screen name, Bud Quinlan: he has a great idea for the crime drama arc of this story and he's going to help me write it. Just giving credit where credit is due! This chapter, however, is all mine._

5.

Teresa took one look at the dissheveled sheets and blankets on the hotel bed and knew what had recently transpired in that room. Empty martini glasses on the bedside table. No doubt she'd find traces of cocaine if she looked for them. She tried not to look too closely.

Her convenient and habitual denial of her feelings was about to kick in. If she said "I don't give a damn" enough times, she might start to believe it. But this time the pain descended on her like an avalanche before she had time to rationalize. Clearly Jane (like him, she had gone back to using his surname to distance herself) had taken this woman, this…murderer…to bed. When he had bedded Lorelei, she partially forgave him because he had had an ulterior motive. And if you asked him, he'd say that this time he also had an ulterior motive: it was necessary to close the case. And that's what he was there for, right? Surely Lisbon didn't mind? After all, she had been his primary demand in coming to work for the FBI. She'd know that a little sex to catch a criminal didn't mean anything to him.

She had hustled Krystal roughly into the FBI van, leaving Fischer and Cho to transport her back to headquarters. She needed to take a walk alone so that no one would see the tears that threatened to fall without stopping. She couldn't usually cry in front of people; she had a long practiced habit of maintaining a calm, professional, brave demeanor in the most heartbreaking and terrifying circumstances. But now there were cracks in the façade. She could not, _would_ _not_ allow Kim Fischer to see her in tears. The woman would be so smug and triumphant that Teresa just might throttle her.

_I'm just going to walk until I stop crying. As long as I have to. Maybe I won't go back to work. I can't stand the sight of him, anyway, and he'll be there preening himself in the glory of getting a lead in a difficult case. And I saved his ass today! The golden boy of the FBI. I might as well be invisible. To him and to the other agents. They still think I'm just here to sweeten the deal for Jane. They think I don't know, but I can tell. They look down on me; they feel sorry for poor little Lisbon who was a team leader and a hot cop but then had to take a sheriff's job in an obscure little town because Patrick Jane ruined her life. Because she'd made allowances and excuses for him for ten years as she filled out mountains of paperwork apologizing to people he'd offended. Because everyone at the CBI thought she favored him and of course she had a crush on him, otherwise why would she have tolerated his disrespect for her? __**for her!**__ Her superiors had contempt for her and refused to give her the promotions she deserved. She was a great cop, damn it! Damn__** him!**_

And it all started because he had come to the CBI all those years ago, pleading to see the Red John files-something she normally would never allow a crime victim to do-it was the first CBI rule she broke, and it wouldn't be the last. Why did she take that fateful step? He looked then very much as he had looked recently upon his return from the island: unwashed, needing a shave and a haircut, dressed in dirty and sloppy clothes and old shoes. He had, as she said at the time, a homeless vibe about him. Because he _was_ homeless. And he continued to be homeless, up to the present day. He had forgotten what a home was like.

She remembered wondering if she was crazy to allow this man to be a consultant for the CBI, but his amazing ability to read people and con them into confessions closed cases like nothing she'd ever seen. She made it her business not to trust him, and her instincts had been right. But "the heart wants what it wants," as she remembered him saying. And her heart wanted him in spite of everything. In spite of him treating her like a bargaining chip, a thing with no human emotions or mind. In spite of him kissing and having sex with other women and flaunting it in her face. (To be fair, she never let on that she cared for him-but she was sure he'd figured it out long ago, so he must have known it would hurt her.) She'd told herself that it wasn't for him that she had accepted the FBI's job offer, that it was her decision to advance her career and get back to exciting police work. But was it? Didn't she really accept the job to be close to him again?

A half hour later, she was still walking the streets of Austin, not really seeing the other people on the street, not enjoying the cool breeze of the late afternoon, not caring that she was missing work. She was no longer in tears, no one had seen her cry, but she felt more alone than she had ever felt in her life. Her misery was all within. She was truly wretched, wanting nothing more than to go home and throw herself, exhausted with grief, onto her bed. She could not be in the same room with Jane. It would be unbearable, impossible. How could she go back to work tomorrow? She really should be back at work now writing a report. But she was sick, sick with self-reprobation and despair. She should have gone back to her job in Texas. At least her heart would not have been broken again-she would, given time, have gotten over Jane. Now she never would.

Teresa finally hailed a cab and asked the driver to take her to FBI headquarters. After he dropped her off, she went to the parking garage to get her car. She drove back to her apartment building, took the elevator up to the fifth floor, unlocked the door of her apartment, and walked into the comfort of her sanctuary: the neat foyer, the pleasant living room scented with sandalwood candles, and beyond that the small kitchen rarely used for cooking, and off to the side, the bedroom with its soft gray wool rug, airy silver-gray comforter and clean sweet-smelling sheets on the bed. She switched on the reading lamp, which spread a soft bright light around the bed. Her books were neatly piled on the bed table waiting for her to open them. It was getting close to five p.m., and it seemed odd to be in her bedroom at that hour on a work day. It was the only place she could find any comfort, though, and she lay down on the welcoming bed and propped herself up with several pillows as she reached for her phone.

"Agent Fischer."

"Kim, it's Teresa. I started to feel sick after the arrest today and took a walk to see if I felt better afterwards, but I think I may have a fever, so I'm at home now. I'm going to take a sick day tomorrow if I'm not feeling better. Just letting you know."

"No problem, Teresa. It must have been very upsetting for you."

"I…don't know why you would say that. Jane and I are not a couple, as everyone here seems to think."

"Of course you're not. But take a personal day. We had a big breakthrough in the DEA case. She's given us some names. Jane is working on finding her boss and connecting her directly with the murders that he ordered. He's doing a spectacular job."

"I'm sorry Kim, but I need to lie down. I'm really not feeling well. I'll call the office tomorrow for an update and I'll write the report from home."

Teresa clicked off the phone, threw it down on the bed and buried her face in her hands.

Suddenly, the phone played that annoying little tune which signalled someone calling.

"Agent Lisbon?"

"This is Agent Lisbon."

"Hi, it's Mark Johnson. I was just wondering if…if you'd like to have coffee some time."

"Where did you get my number?"

"From Patrick. I ran into him today at the FBI office after you collared that suspect. I asked where you were, and he said you disappeared. Agent Fischer didn't know where you were, either. I was concerned, because it didn't seem like you not to return to work to write up your report, at least not without calling first. So I asked him for your number. I hope you don't mind. It must have been…hard for you to have to deal with that situation."

"Officer Johnson, Jane and I have never been a couple, only professional partners, and it's really frustrating for me that everyone around here seems to think we were involved. I left the scene to take a walk because I wasn't feeling well. I think I may be getting the flu. I just checked in with Agent Fischer a few minutes ago."

"Oh. I see. I'm sorry to be presumptuous. I hope you feel better. And you can call me Mark."

"Thank you. Um, Mark? I'd like to have coffee with you when I'm feeling better."

"Great! I'll call tomorrow to see how you're doing. But no hurry."

"OK."

"Bye Teresa. I can call you Teresa?"

"Yes, of course. Bye Mark."

Mark smiled. This woman can't lie convincingly, he thought. She's so honest. Poor Teresa. You won't know what hit you.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

What had he done?

He stared at her empty desk and imagined how hurt she must be to miss work. Once again he had made her suffer, and each time it must be harder for her to forgive him. Maybe she wouldn't this time. But they had to work together. She'd have to forgive him. Wouldn't she?

He never thought that she would be the one to put the cuffs on Krystal. He'd been sure it would be Fischer and some other agent, but not Lisbon. Fischer made Lisbon go with her on purpose to mess with Lisbon's head. It was so transparent. Lisbon would see that Patrick Jane didn't care about her, had no feelings for her, and would take up with a floozy just to solve a case.

The image of the stricken look she gave him as she pushed Krystal out the door was something he would never forget. He knew he was to blame; he could have refused to seduce Krystal. And he _would_ have refused if he hadn't been angry with Lisbon. This was the first time he'd ever wanted to hurt her. What a mean, selfish bastard I am, he thought. Her face, with its expression of mingled horror, disbelief, shock, revulsion, and agony, rose up before him as if on a screen in his head. Her reproachful eyes were more than he could endure.

He had to write her a letter to explain. But there was no explanation. No excuse. Only the lowest bottom feeding scum could do what he did and enjoy it, no less. Because he had enjoyed it, he thought, his mind reeling with shame. This is the worst thing I've ever done to her. It's unforgivable.

He picked up a pen, took some paper and began to write.

_Dear Teresa,_

_I don't expect you ever to forgive what I have done, or to believe me when I tell you that I love you and no one else. I only did it because I was angry with you. I had no right to be angry. You were right. I am selfish, childish, controlling and still secretive even when there is no longer any reason to be. I have taken you for granted all these years and treated you as though you were an extension of me, as if my wishes were your wishes. I never showed you any respect. I teased you and baited you. I lied to you and conned you. And you took it because you love me. I'm not quite sure, actually, but I think you __**must**__ love me even though I certainly don't deserve it._

_I can't make this up to you. Nothing I could do would take away the pain I have made you feel. And don't deny it, Teresa: the reason you're not at work today is that you can't bear to see me. I want so much to apologize to you properly, but I have destroyed any chance of that happening. No one is to blame for this but me. If it makes you feel better, I have made myself wretched. My own heart is punishing me. I see the look on your face yesterday in my mind's eye, and I will see it every day as long as I live._

_I don't blame you for hating me (for you must hate me) but please know that I will never forgive myself for this, especially after the Lorelei incident, which, after it happened, I swore I would never repeat. You deserve someone so much better than I am. And you will find someone someday, or he will find you. But I will always love you deeply, miserably, as a man who has destroyed any chance of happiness loves. If you can ever forgive me, I will show you just how much. _

He stopped at this point, unable to write more.

Damn that fucking Fischer. She set us both up. I'll fix her.

But I can't make her responsible. I'm the one who did the deed. I could have, should have, refused. It was my pride, my damn pride that made me want to hurt her-the one good and beautiful thing in my life. How could I be so blind? so arrogant?

He laid his head down on his crossed forearms. He was facing the cold steel top of his desk.

He got up after several minutes and then lay down on his couch.

He almost ripped up the letter, but something stopped him.

Instead, he got up again and found an envelope. He put the letter inside and then remembered he forgot to sign it. Taking it out again, he grabbed a pen and wrote, _Please don't forget that I love you_. _Patrick _at the bottom of the page. Then he slipped the letter under his coat and got into his Airstream trailer. He drove to Lisbon's building and parked on a side street. He ran up to the door, took the elevator to the fifth floor, and slid the envelope under the door of her apartment. For a moment he hesitated and almost knocked. But he turned away and hurried back to the elevator.

This was the second tragedy he had brought upon himself.

Would he ever learn humility, compassion, and consideration for someone's feelings? The lack of these qualities had caused a serial killer to murder his wife and child. Now it had lost him the love of the person dearest to him. If he could have wept, he would have cried until he was exhausted, as Teresa had the day before. But since he couldn't summon the tears, he sat for an hour in the Airstream with a terrible pain for which there was no remedy. And then he crawled into the small folding bed with its thin scratchy sheets and worn blankets and finally fell into a restless sleep, haunted in his dreams by the broken, sad eyes of Teresa.


	7. Chapter 7

_This chapter may well be a too radical departure in style from the prior chapters. There's no Henry James here at all, only Raymond Chandler. It's Bud's voice as a writer that is heard here, with only a few revisions from me._

_(co-written with __**Bud Quinlan**__)_

7.

Officer Steuben chewed his lip.

Stubs was sure it was a gun and the punk was pointing it at him. To approach the crumpled mass in the road, his weapon still drawn, only to discover he'd killed a young kid with a Super Soaker made Stubs literally sick—but not from fear. It was the thought of the media circus that would follow, with reporters hinting he was a racist, and the damn DA preening for the camera and talking about justice for this stupid, disrespectful kid, that made him queasy. It meant the end of his job, the end of his marriage, the end of the good life he'd known, all because some little _animal—_

If only it could all go away, the kid's body just vanish into the night (and what kind of parent lets a little kid out this late in this part of town?) and have this just be another uneventful night, then nobody would care. Hell, it would probably be weeks before the kid's parents reported him missing.

He holstered his Glock, took out the burner cell phone that had served him so well in the past, and dialed that same number. There still had to be someone on the other end—all that mess in Sacramento couldn't have taken down the entire organization.

There was only one ring before someone answered the call. There was no hello, not even a yeah, just the faint sound of breath that showed the mighty organization still existed and filled Stubs with the relief he'd craved.

"Tiger, tiger," he said.

(* * *)

It was less than five minutes until the black SUV rolled up. Stubs would have been another casualty of the night if the driver hadn't flashed the lights. Driving in the dark in this part of town with no lights on? _This guy was good._

He stood on the passenger side as the SUV came to a halt and the driver's side door opened. "Tiger, tiger," he called, and the hopefulness he'd felt turned to rancid disappointment when he finally saw the driver.

_What the hell did they send him, a faggot?_ The cop was wearing a flashy suit, had cufflinks that shone even in the darkness here, and moved…well, like a dancer. He backed off as the man approached, almost ready to pull his gun again. The Blake Association had come to this?

Then the man's face came into what little light there was, and Stubs felt relieved again. He may have pranced, but the guy's expression was granite, all business, and here (_Thank God!_ Stubs thought) to take care of business. He wondered who his savior worked for. He might even be a Fed, somebody with resources to fix this mess, somebody who wouldn't just be driving them to the edge of the Hill Country with a couple of shovels.

"Tiger, tiger," he repeated, now with a bit of deference, even obsequiousness.

The hoped for reply didn't come. Instead, the rock-faced man seemed to pirouette around the kid's small body, and then turned that solid, solemn expression on Officer Steuben.

"Stubs, Stubs, Stubs," he drawled, "what have you done now?"

How did-how could he know who he was? "You're Austin PD?"

The strange man nodded. "What is this, the third bad shooting you've had this year? It's certainly the worst, and you did the right thing to call, but I'm puzzled: why did you just accept the consequences for the other two? Was it because those victims could still talk? We could have taken care of them too-oh, but I see-then you'd owe the Association favors." He walked close to Stubs, literally getting in his face. "You think you're too important to help out a fellow cop? You didn't want to be called on to, say, retire a perp, is that it? Are you by the book, except when that book is going to get thrown at you?"

Steuben was almost out of his mind with fear. Was the Association really dead, and instead of a getting a helping hand, he'd walked into an Internal Affairs trap? "Look, uh, detective-it's detective, right? You're Austin PD, you know my name-it's not like that, not at all! I just wanted to, wanted to-I mean, of course I played the others by the book, but-"

The lithe man knocked his shoulder against Stubs', and began to laugh. "I'm just breaking your balls, Stubs! I'm here to help, absolutely-and really, you should have called us on those other two shootings. They were just like this one-animals, am I right?"

Stubs laughed weakly and passed his hand over his brow; he was sweating uncontrollably. "Yeah, I just didn't know what the status was with the organization," he babbled. "It's been more than a year and we're still hearing stuff coming out of California about the Association-"

"Stubs, look around! Are we on the West Coast?" He pointed into the black night. "Are those L.A.'s lights you see there, or is it the Texas Hill Country?" He drew back, and lifted a corner of the kid's body with a designer shoe. "It's still Austin, Stubs, and the Association is as strong here as it ever was." He turned, clapped Stubs' shoulder with one surprisingly strong hand while holding out the other. "Let me hear it again."

At first Stubs had no idea what the detective meant. Then he realized and finally relaxed and grasped the outstretched hand with both of his. "Tiger, ti-"

The impact of the first gunshot wound, especially at so close a range, would have pulled Officer Steuben from the handshake of most men, but Mark Johnson was so strong, he was able to pull Officer Steuben even closer to fire a second shot with the tip of his Glock 20's silencer placed directly on the drooping flesh immediately beneath Officer Thomas 'Stubs' Steuben's chin, a double chin that had been tending towards triple from the generous portions of barbecue he had taken to eating on duty since the first bad shooting this year that Mark Johnson had mentioned.

"It's 'Little lamb, little lamb,' now, you obese dinosaur." Johnson practically spat the words at Steuben. He had a police cruiser and two bodies to dispose of in a short period of time. The car wasn't a problem; he'd even brought an IED he could trigger from his cell once he and the bodies were well out of the area. It was how far he'd have to drive before he could bury Steuben and this nameless kid that inflamed his rage. The Blake Association was rebuilding, and it was a good thing that Steuben hadn't called on them for help with his prior shootings; he would have been read into the new rules, from "Little lamb, little lamb" replacing "Tiger, tiger," to eliminating Blake members who had not bothered to help the Association when it most needed them. Steuben was obviously someone who wanted someone else to clean up his messes, but could not be bothered to help others with their messes. In the old days, Johnson could have had two other officers to deal with the bodies, but now it was just he himself and a shovel, driving at high speed to one of Travis County's fast disappearing rural patches. But what made this all the more maddening was that tonight was his first date with Teresa Lisbon, and he liked to be early, well-dressed (and not exhausted from impromptu burials) on his first dates.

He checked the time and decided he would have to delay burying Steuben and the kid until later. He would have to come up with an excuse for not having Teresa to his place should their date go well, but that would be a plus: a woman like Lisbon wouldn't be above sport sex, but a serious relationship with her would take time. And what better way to avenge Red John and take revenge on the man who so damaged this great and secret brotherhood than to have Teresa Lisbon love him? It almost made him sorry he would have to kill her.


	8. Chapter 8

_**The last chapter, as I said, was a bit shocking-Bud's style is not for everyone, and it is more reminiscent of Chandler than James. But there was a good reason for writing it this way-the reader needs to know what Mark Johnson is up to and that "Tiger, Tiger" still exists under another name. I tend to jump around from character to character in this story, devoting a chapter to each main character. So in chapters 8 and 9 we return to Jane before the chapter describing Lisbon's date with Johnson.**_

_**Oh, and Merry Christmas, everyone! This story was begun on Christmas Day, 2013.**_

_**"Merry Christmas," the man threatened." William Gaddis, "The Recognitions"**_

8.

"Coyote" Wiley sat at his desk in the FBI bullpen, hard at work on computer surveillance of the suspects in a number of cases. He was oblivious of the bustling activity around him; he was fond of saying that he could "focus like a laser" on anything and tune out all distractions. Wiley, who worked in IT, was something of a computer savant. He was high on the Asperger's chart, with a near-genius level IQ but limited ability to interact with people. However, he had recently demonstrated that he could hold his own in the bullpen. Agent Abbott, impressed by Wiley's abilities, had bestowed upon him a bona fide desk right next to Agent Cho, formerly of the now-defunct CBI. Cho tolerated the young man at first, but gradually began to feel almost fatherly towards him, not that an observer could ever tell-Cho's expression was indecipherable most of the time, and although he had a sharp wit, he rarely smiled and never laughed.

Teresa Lisbon had been Cho's boss at the CBI. He was loyal and protective of her, and even now he still called her "Boss." Often Cho was approached by Patrick, who would try to enlist him in questionable schemes without Teresa's knowledge. Cho secretly liked and respected Patrick, despite (or maybe because of) his insistence on flouting the law to catch a criminal. A former gang member, Cho had seen some terrible things, and after a few years of running with the Avon Park Playboys he had nothing but hatred and contempt for them and everything they represented. He had a personal conversion of sorts, the result of which was that he joined the Army and became a member of Special Ops.

After that, he joined the CBI, because he decided he wanted a career in law enforcement. He was an outstanding agent, skilled, dependable, trustworthy, and loyal. His ability to read people was almost on a par with Patrick's, and he knew very well how Patrick and Teresa felt about each other. The one thing that he hated about Patrick was the way he treated Teresa. Many times he'd wanted to speak his mind about it. When Cho spoke his mind he was unsparingly honest and blunt. Cho wanted Patrick and Teresa to stop playing games and acknowledge their love for each other. But he also observed that they were not yet ready, even after twelve years, two of which they spent apart. He respected Teresa's desire to keep a professional distance from Patrick, but now that she was no longer his boss the situation had changed. Cho only hoped that the FBI would not forbid them to date. Patrick wasn't an agent, after all.

Cho glanced furtively at Wiley, who seemed to be staring into space but in reality was figuring out some perplexing GPS tracking problem. After a minute or so, he resumed typing with his usual concentration. With his angelic blonde hair and round face, Wiley seemed younger than he was. He'd been bullied and teased in high school and a loner in college. Now he was in a job where people took him seriously. Everyone except the smartasses in IT who gave him his nickname because his last name was Wiley. He never did get the joke, even when Cho explained that Wile-E Coyote was an old cartoon character. But then he often didn't get why people laughed at certain things. He knew it was due to his Asperger's, but he didn't see any problem with it. It was like being color blind. Unimportant for most things, except maybe driving a car.

Into the midst of Wiley's thoughts came Patrick (whom Cho thought of and addressed as "Jane") He came striding into the bullpen, stopping next to Wiley's desk. He grinned broadly at Cho, saying, "Hey, Cho!"

"Hey Jane. What's up?"

"Oh, nothing. Just a little idea I have."

Cho's blank expression did not change.

"It involves Coyote here ["_Wiley_, please," said the younger man] and maybe you."

"Count me out," said Cho.

"Oh, come on, Cho, it's really nothing. You won't get in trouble. It'll be fun."

"I've got work to do," Cho responded.

Patrick sighed, rolling his eyes. "Well, if you change your mind…" He turned to Wiley, who ignored him.

"Wiley! Sorry, didn't mean to offend. I need your help with something."

Wiley narrowed his eyes with a suspicious look at Jane.

"Is it FBI related?"

"Umm…sort of."

Wiley looked down. It was difficult for him to make eye contact with people.

"I promise you won't get in trouble."

"Take my advice and don't do it," interjected Cho.

Patrick gave him a reproachful look. "Aw, Cho, I thought you were my friend!"

He leaned closer to them while standing in the narrow space between the two desks.

"It involves protecting Lisbon. She's in danger," he whispered.

Cho raised an eyebrow. Wiley said, still looking down, "Agent Lisbon? What happened?"

"Meet me for lunch and I'll explain it. Both of you." (looking meaningfully at Cho) "Time is of essence."

Wiley's eyes widened as he still looked down at his computer keyboard. Agent Lisbon was very kind and very beautiful and she always treated him with respect, unlike a lot of other people at the FBI. (Well, not Cho.)

If her life was in danger, he had to help save her. "I'm in," he said.

Cho hesitated before saying, "I'm in, but I reserve the right to get out at any time I see fit."

"Hey, you guys are great! I could go for some Chinese for lunch. You?"

Cho, still expressionless, didn't answer. Wiley was simply caught in the net of his poor social skills.

"OK, Chinese it is. In the lobby at noon?"

First Cho nodded, then Wiley.

Patrick left the room as suddenly as he had appeared.

"Agent Cho, you think she's in real danger?"

"If Jane thinks she is, then it's true."

"Shouldn't we tell Agent Abbott and Agent Fischer?"

"No. If you tell them, I will hurt you seriously." Cho could be terrifying when he threatened with a calm face and lowered voice.

"OK, OK, I won't tell anyone."

"Good."

Cho sighed. Now he was responsible for two loose cannons instead of one.


	9. Chapter 9

9.

The two middle-aged men and the young man sat at a table at the Lucky Dragon restaurant, sipping tea as they waited for their lunch. The young man was diffident and silent. The two others were having a serious discussion.

"OK guys, it's like this: Lisbon's about to go on a date with a killer. Of course she doesn't know he's a killer. And her detective skills are a little rusty-she's been taken in by his Nice Guy act, which was quite convincing. I don't know when their first date is, but in any case we have to track this bastard before he gets her alone."

"How do you know he's a killer?" Cho asked.

"This cop, Mark Johnson, I read him for a phony the first time I saw him. There was a cleverly disguised undercurrent of violence in him despite his act. I followed him two nights ago and sure enough, he had a meeting with a guy who didn't make it out of there alive. A dirty cop name of "Stubs" Steuben. Steuben made the mistake of greeting Johnson with the password "Tiger, Tiger." It seems the password has changed to "Little Lamb, little Lamb" since the CBI exposed that sinister law enforcement conspiracy. And the Blake Association hates loose ends. Steuben had become a liability, so Johnson took him out. It was extremely unpleasant to watch even though Steuben had it coming.

Wiley, I have to fill you in on some of the backstory later, but for now, all you need to know is this: Agent Lisbon was instrumental in exposing the Blake Association, which Johnson is a member of. Possibly even a higher-up. Red John, who I killed [Wiley gasped audibly] was the head of the old Association. Johnson hates me for killing Red John (or Thomas McAllister, which is his real name) So in revenge, he's going to try to kill Lisbon."

"Why isn't he after _you_, Mr. Jane?"

"You can call me Patrick, Wiley. Or Jane, if you prefer. The answer to your question is complicated…"

"No it's not," said Cho with a very slight hint of exasperation in his voice. "It's not complicated at all. You and Agent Lisbon have had feelings for each other for years. Johnson gets his revenge on you by killing her. He might even try to make her fall in love with him first."

Wiley swallowed hard. Jane and Agent Lisbon? Well, it wasn't as if he, Wiley, would ever be able to ask her out. She was way out of his league. But he wasn't sure he wanted to see her with Jane.

"Be that as it may, and I'm not confirming or denying what you said, this man is extremely dangerous and plans to kill Lisbon. I was lucky he didn't catch me trailing him. The Blake Association is so wide-ranging that there's no way the CBI or even the FBI could hope to take down all its members. This man has allies in high places. But Cho, here's where you come in-I'll get to you,Wiley, in a minute.

Cho had his arms folded and hadn't touched his food. Wiley was nibbling on an eggroll.

"I need police GPS tracking devices to put on Johnson's and Lisbon's cars. No time for warrants. You, Cho, are going to get the devices for me and help me install them. I take it you could do this?"

Cho nodded and said, "I can but I don't want to. It's not easy and I could be caught, arrested. Do time."

"We'll do it together. You can say that I forced you to do it. We'll figure something out. If we play our cards right, we won't get caught."

"Jane, is there a reason why we can't go through proper channels and inform Abbott and Fischer?"

"Cho, you know as well as I do that they would say there was no compelling evidence to put a trace on his vehicle or Lisbon's. Also, Fischer dislikes both me and Lisbon and would enjoy crushing our scheme."

"Fair enough," said Cho, uncrossing his arms and beginning to eat.

"Jane?" Wiley finally had the nerve to speak up. "What am I supposed to do?"

Patrick smiled his famous disarming smile at the young IT guy.

"Your skills at tracking using GPS and other means are legendary. I need you to do the tracking. It would be simple for you."

"Oh, it's easy-you could do it! I can tell you right now. All you have to do is go to the URL for the tracking app-oh, but you have to be on a machine in the bureau's intranet, but that's no problem-enter the hex ID-"

Cho suddenly reached across the table and spilled hot tea into Wiley's lap. Wiley stood up with a yelp, and Cho, unusually loudly, and unusually solicitous for him, began blotting it with a napkin, saying, "Wiley, I'm so sorry, that was so clumsy of me." He kept this up, moving closer and closer to Wiley, until he was so close he could whisper in his ear, in his usual solemn tone, "Remember what I said? You're talking so loudly in here, you're practically telling all the other customers. Don't make me hurt you."

Wiley laughed nervously and said, "Oh, I meant if you were going to do such a thing, but of course you aren't-"

"Wiley, shut up." Cho folded his napkin and sat back down.

Patrick said, "Wiley, I'm no good at computers. I need you to do this. Besides, think of how grateful Lisbon will be to you."

Wiley's eyes lit up like a pinball machine and he said, "Do you really think so, Mr. Jane?"

"Wiley, I'm sure of it. Trust me."

Cho, under the guise of helping himself to more food, leaned to the center of the table and whispered, "Are we good now?"

Patrick clapped his hands together in satisfaction.

"Gentlemen, we begin tonight."


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's note: As of Jan. 10, 2014, I edited Chapter 9, so you may wish to re-read it. There are various edits throughout the chapters, but none affect the storyline.  
_

10.

The wind was roaring during a sudden fall thunderstorm which exploded in the skies over Austin, Texas. Small animals scurried to find cover, dogs howled at the cracking sound of thunder, and people driving home hurried through flooded streets, attempting to see through windshields blocked by sheets of pelting rain and hail.

It was late Saturday afternoon, already getting dark, and Teresa was in her apartment, safe from the rain. She hadn't gone out all day. Instead, she spent a couple of hours trying to decide what to wear that night on her date with Mark Johnson. The rain made it necessary to wear her rubber boots, which didn't look very chic, and a rain poncho with a hood, which was even worse.

The letter Jane had slipped under her door a few days earlier had left her unmoved. Remembering all the letters he'd written her from the island, letters she'd cherished and re-read dozens of times, she flung the letter down on the couch and for a moment she thought she would get all his letters and burn them. But something stopped her. She picked up the letter and put it in the box with the others. Then she turned her attention to the first date she'd had in years. _I need to stop thinking about Jane. I'm going out tonight with someone who just might be better boyfriend material. Have to decide what to wear…_She had planned to wear a short black sleeveless dress with a black cardigan sweater over it, but when she tried it on and saw herself in the mirror, she felt that it made her look old and washed out. _I need something with color in it. If only I could wear jeans and a T shirt to this place we're going._

So she took out her one other article of non-work clothing: a dark gray form-fitting wool knee-length skirt, which showed off her slender waist and hips to good advantage. She had a collection of shirts and blouses, but none of them seemed quite right. She finally chose a peacock blue silk shirt that she sometimes wore to work. It looked better, but not the effect she was trying to achieve. She didn't know how to look alluring because she had never wanted to look alluring. She unbuttoned the shirt as low as she dared. The gold cross necklace she always wore seemed to be a reprimand for attempting to depart from her usual modest attire.

It wasn't from shyness or lack of interest that Teresa was so phobic about dressing to look attractive. She never really felt comfortable with men she dated (except one Walter Mashburn, who incited passion in her body but nothing else.) The reasons were complex: although Patrick had broken her heart for the last time and a relationship with him was hopeless, she still loved him and it was difficult to make herself attractive for anyone else. Her ambivalence about the success of long-term relationships also contributed to her unease.

Another reason was her lack of confidence in her beauty and sexuality. She was a remarkably striking woman, still radiating the glow of youth even though she was past forty. She looked at herself in the mirror and didn't see a beauty. Kim Fischer looked at her and saw a beauty, though, and was envious. And it was not only Mark who noticed her: half a dozen men in the office had crushes on her. Of course Patrick thought she was exquisite (though he never let on) and poor young Wiley was hopelessly smitten. Abbott observed her with approval. Even Cho acknowledged that in addition to being a brilliant agent she was also lovely to look at (although his interest was more fraternal than romantic.) Teresa was unaware of the power she wielded over others simply by being beautiful.

And then there was her hair, and the makeup…

She liked her hair to be natural and flowing in loose waves over her shoulders. This was the way it looked best. It was a simple style. She also liked to put her hair up, which made her look a little like a woman from the late nineteenth century. Maybe up was better in the rain-her hair tended to become wild with frizz when it got wet.

She put her hair up and subjected the result to a critical glance in the mirror. It was OK. And the red lipstick she applied made her face seem less pale. She didn't use much eye makeup because she instinctively knew that her eyes didn't need to be enhanced. They were large and framed with thick dark lashes and graceful brows. Their arresting color varied according to her mood and the light: from pale translucent leaf green to dark emerald.

She put on a gold bracelet that she rarely wore. It had been a present from Patrick several years ago; she had tried to refuse it politely but he insisted that she take it. Something in her needed a tangible reminder of him so she would not go too far on this first date with Mark.

At 7:30 pm he was standing at her front door, his coat still dripping from the rain, carrying a large umbrella.

Teresa felt a pounding in her chest. _What if he tries to kiss me later? _ She hoped she wasn't sweating.

"Hey," Mark said smiling and carefully placing the wet umbrella in a corner of the foyer, "It's still bad out there.

Roads are flooded and it's going to rain all night. But our date must go on! We're not letting a little rain interfere with our plans."

She took a few hesitant steps toward him.

"Should we call the restaurant and say we'll be late?"

"I think we can make it before 8:00."

"OK." She put on her poncho and boots. She had no idea where her umbrella was.

"Look at you! You look like a first grader!" he teased her.

Teresa gave him the largest smile she could muster.

"The car's right outside. Here, share my umbrella." They huddled under it and hurried to the black SUV. He helped her get in, closed the door, then walked around to the driver's side and got in. _Good manners,_ _that's a plus._ His car was similar to her own, and for a moment she had a painful flashback of the many conversations with Patrick in that vehicle. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

Mark turned his head very slightly towards her as he began to drive. "Are you all right?" He could guess what was likely to be going through her mind.

"Oh, I'm fine! I just hate rain, that's all."

"Not crazy about it either. But you'll love this restaurant. It's new and it's already hard to get a reservation."

"What kind of food?" Teresa was glad she was able to make conversation.

"French. I hope that's OK? They make a particularly delicious duck _confit_ and the wines are incredible."

Teresa rarely dined at expensive restaurants, and was not well versed in French food or wine.

"French food is perfect," she answered with a cheerfulness she didn't feel.

"Great! I hope you'll have dessert."

"If I'm not too full from dinner…"

"You have to have the _crème brulée_."

Teresa summoned another smile, saying, "Then I will. But you'll have to share it with me."

A few minutes later the SUV was at the door of a large white and chrome modern building with "Chérie" in Italic script on its tall glass doors. This was the most impressive restaurant Teresa had ever seen. Even Walter Mashburn hadn't taken her to a place like this. She was self-conscious about her rain gear, but at least she could remove the rain poncho.

They were greeted at the door by an obsequious _maître d'_ who took their coats and umbrella. She was dazzled by the lavish lounge with its modern sofa and huge bouquets of flowers. They were led into an immense, dimly lit room with large and small tables and booths along the perimeter. Each table had a white tablecloth, a vase with a single red rose, and a tiny votive candle. Mark had chosen a table for two in a secluded corner. She noticed for the second time that he moved gracefully, like a dancer. She was beginning to like his looks.

_"Madame et monsieur, s'il vous plaît." _ The maître d' gestured toward the table and pulled the chair out for Teresa. Mark pulled out his own chair and sat across from her. _Better not make her even more nervous, he thought. She's never been in a place like this before. Like a fish out of water._ He decided to take command and order for her.

Mark ordered in French as soon as a haughty waiter appeared.

"Teresa, I hope you don't mind if I order some of my favorites for you."

She was completely floored by the fact that he spoke French. When she recovered from that shock, she was grateful that he was ordering for them both to spare her embarrassment. _Very considerate,_ she thought. And she liked the way he took command. Patrick had never taken her on a real date before, but in this situation he would also have taken command. _Why do I even care about that in a man? Maybe because I was in command of a team for so many years that it feels good to have someone else take care of things. But commanding can lead to controlling…I don't want another Jane. I'm not allowing anyone to control me._

She spread the snowy linen napkin in her lap and answered,"I really appreciate that. I don't know French."

_Might as well be honest. Start things off on the right foot._

"I spent some time in France when I was a kid. Whenever I have vacation time, I go to Paris or the Riviera. Have you ever been there?"

"No to both, I'm afraid. I've always wanted to go, though."

"I can picture you there," said Mark as he looked meaningfully into her eyes, but only for a second.

She blushed, and was angry with herself for not being able to control it. _Damn! Now he knows he's got me hooked. He's practically promising to take me to France with him. Like Walter. But maybe this time I should go. Not too soon, though._

She changed the subject after they were both silent for a long moment.

"Do you enjoy working with us?"

"I'm out of my domain, I'll admit, but being a police consultant to this case is interesting. But let's not talk about work. Tell me about yourself."

This was the question Teresa was least equipped to answer.

"Mark, you should know that I don't talk much about my private life. I always felt it was unprofessional at work as a team leader. I'm not the confiding type. But I'll tell you a few things. I grew up in Chicago and lost my mother when I was twelve, raised three brothers, had an alcoholic father. I like basketball, I run, I read literature when I get the chance-I've had more time lately since I'm no longer chief or special agent anymore. The paperwork used to be endless."

"I'm glad you have time to read now. I have always enjoyed great novels and especially poetry."

_At least we have something in common_. "How about your background?"

"You sound like a cop! Old habit, I guess!" He laughed. "Not much to tell. Military family. Moved around a lot in the States and Europe. Decided to be a cop after finishing college. Married once, divorced, no kids. Oh, look, here's our salads." The haughty waiter had returned with a beautiful, artfully arranged plate of greens for them. Then the sommelier brought over two bottles of red wine and there was a brief discussion in French. Mark chose one of the bottles, tasted the wine, and pronounced it satisfactory. Even Walter couldn't do this. She admired the dark blood-red ruby color as she lifted her glass and sniffed.

"A toast! To more dates!"

She forced a smile (Mark wasn't fooled) and they clinked the glasses together.


	11. Chapter 11

11.

By the time they finished dinner, the rain had stopped. They stepped over large deep puddles as they made their way to the car, which a valet handed over to Mark.

They didn't talk much on the ride back to Teresa's. She was relieved that it was almost over and not really bad at all. She had him figured for the type of man who was too much of a gentleman to pressure her on the first date. Hell, she might even do this again. She might even leave her gun at home.

Mark Johnson was having different thoughts.

_She really bought the cutured gentleman act. Loves it. Now I just have to keep it going without slipping up. Her guard is down. But it won't be easy to get her to fall in love. Hung up on Jane. What does that bastard have that I don't? I'm smart as he is. Clean up nicely. Got to find out more about her-do more research. Won't get much out of her._

At her door, they stood for an awkward moment until Teresa said, "It was a lovely evening. I enjoyed everything so much. Thank you."

"My pleasure." He moved closer to her and she had to force herself not to take a step back. He planted a kiss on her cheek.

"I'll call you. We'll go somewhere different next time. You can choose if you want!"

"I liked your choice," said Teresa. This time her smile was genuine.

_Take that, Patrick Jane._

The aforementioned Patrick Jane was at that moment looking at a screen which showed GPS tracking of Mark's SUV. Both Cho and Wiley had done their jobs well. Cho himself had surreptitiously installed the devices under the parked cars in broad daylight while their owners were working inside the building. And Wiley had set up the program brilliantly on a laptop that Patrick had purchased, using his lunch hour to show Jane how to use it in the guise of teaching him how to use a computer (which actually had to be done first) Because this was a personal laptop and the agents knew Patrick was a computer illiterate, no one suspected anything.

Patrick could barely restrain himself from wearing a permanent gleeful smile.

He had, in fact, followed Mark's car the night before, using a rental car and keeping at a good distance. He parked close enough to Teresa's building to observe them going inside. He knew that there was unlikely to be any trouble this early in the game because Mark's plan was to seduce her and then kill her. No one could seduce Lisbon on the first date (well, maybe _he_ could if she ever forgave him.) But he wanted to prove to himself that he could follow a car unobserved.

The next workday, a Monday, he watched Teresa carefully from afar. She was still avoiding him, but once or twice he caught her looking at him with a wistful expression. It was painful to see. Why couldn't they forgive each other? It really had been his fault-it always was-but this time no amount of apologizing accomplished anything. He still loved her as much as she loved him. Now his priority was saving her from this monster who used to take orders from Red John!

_Don't care if she never speaks to me again, I'm saving her life, just as I said I would, whether she likes it or not._

Patrick exchanged knowing glances with Cho and winked at Wiley, who ignored him. He shrugged and left the bullpen to make a cup of tea in the kitchen. He carried the steaming cup to the leather couch he had finagled, and lay full length upon it, balancing the cup on its saucer. _ Need to plan my next move. Really should tell her the truth about this guy, even though she won't believe me and she'll get mad thinking I'm making this up because I'm jealous. What I saw the night Johnson killed Stubs was like something from a gangster movie. Could hardly believe it myself. Couldn't hurt to plant a seed of doubt. Probably thinks he's great already. But how do I start a conversation when she avoids me and won't speak to me?_

With eyes closed, he was pretending to contemplate the leads in the DEA case. He knew that the Blake Association was behind it and that Johnson was at or near the top-maybe even McAllister's successor. There was only one problem: he had no proof.

He opened his eyes and saw Agent Fischer standing next to him. He knew she hated the couch.

"Working hard, Patrick?"

"As a matter of fact, I have the whole case figured out. I just don't have any proof. Yet."

"Really? Do you mind sharing that information?"

"I promise I will as soon as I get some proof. You wouldn't want to waste FBI time on a mere hypothesis."

"Can't you give me anything?" She switched her demeanor to flirtatious, smiling the way she had on the island.

"OK, here's something: it's the Blake Association. They're active again."

"And you know this how?"

"I've done some investigating."

"Have you? Well, thanks for the tip. I'll have someone follow up on that."

She turned and walked away with an arch look at him over her shoulder.

_Great, this is all I need, her hitting on me. _He put his cup on the floor and turned on his side, facing the back of the couch.

And then, he felt someone come up to him. He turned around and sat up to face Teresa Lisbon.

"Hi, Jane, I just wanted to let you know that I went out with Mark Johnson Saturday night and had a wonderful time. He's considerate, a gentleman, easy to talk to. There are some men who appreciate me." She said this last sentence intending it to be a dig, but Patrick was able to detect the hurt in the subtext.

"Well, Lisbon, I'd normally be happy for you, but Mark Johnson is a very clever actor and a very dangerous man. He's taken you in with his suave and sophisticated gentleman act. He's a member of the Blake Association."

"Oh please. You'll have to do better than that. What evidence do you have?"

"I witnessed him kill a man last Friday night. To get him out of the way because he was a liability to the organization."

Teresa was scornful. "OK, now I know you're making this up. If you really saw him kill someone, why didn't you call the police? You're just jealous. And you're getting what you deserve. You think I can't live without you. Well, it's not that hard."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Why would I get the police involved when we can't trust them? You really ought to listen to my warning, Lisbon. At least don't go out with him again without your gun. He's planning to kill you. Have I ever been wrong?"

"You've been wrong a lot. I'm not listening to this B.S. anymore."

"Lisbon…Teresa…can't we at least be friends again like we were? You have to stop seeing this murderer. Johnson was a protegé of McAllister. He was grooming him to take over for him. Johnson is ruthless and soulless, probably a sociopath and maybe even a serial killer."

"So I guess you're going to chaperone our dates to make sure he behaves himself?"

"I'm not going to let him kill you."

"I hate you. I really do." Teresa flounced back to her desk. Patrick gazed after her with a terrible fear gripping his gut. _She's so stubborn. Her stubbornness'll get her killed. I have to stop this._

At the end of the workday he spied Teresa and Johnson bantering together much as she used to banter with him.

Fury and jealousy overcame him. He wished he could strangle the bastard like McAllister. It took some effort for him to restrain himself from lobbing a sarcastic remark at them. _He can't suspect that I know anything. And I'm not giving him the satisfaction of knowing I'm jealous. He's not even a worthy rival. If Lisbon were as wary as she used to be and not so vulnerable, she would have him figured out by now. It's terrifying how her denial is blinding her. I have to stop being angry because it's clouding my judgement. I need a clear mind to think about what to do next._

He packed up his laptop and left the bullpen for his trailer.


	12. Chapter 12

12.

THREE WEEKS LATER

Teresa and Mark continued to see a lot of each other after their first date. Teresa found herself enjoying going to nice restaurants and discussing books they had both read. She liked to go to movies with him. He proved to be as agile intellectually as he was physically. They went running together and she admired his sleek muscles and long legs. They gradually progressed to some tentative kissing and hand exploration, but had not yet tried anything more daring.

Mark was taking things slowly because that's the way she wanted it. He had time to get her to sleep with him. It wouldn't be long now. And he even felt himself falling for her a little, too. _Not good. Gotta get a grip. The idea is to fuck Jane over. Not get involved again. She has to die. No loose ends. She'll find out sooner or later, she's not stupid. I'm getting sick of pretending to be someone else._

Meanwhile, Patrick had discovered that Mark lived in a house on the outskirts of town. The only problem with the GPS system was that he couldn't determine whether or not Teresa was with him. He wished there was a way to put a tracking device on_ her. _He couldn't help smiling at this idea. Since he was tracking her car also, however, he was able to tell that sometimes she drove to his place. She always drove home at some point, so they weren't sleeping together yet. He hated the idea, although he couldn't blame her if she wanted to do it: after all, hadn't he only recently slept with a murderer? And if you counted Lorelei, _two_ murderers.

_I think now I understand how she feels. She still loves me. Seeing me with another woman was torture. I'm feeling what she felt. I deserve to feel it. Oh, Teresa, Teresa, let me rescue you. Please. _

xxx

It was Friday afternoon in the FBI bullpen.

Everyone was working with a certain reluctance, wanting to get the hell out of there for the weekend. Teresa was thinking about her date with Mark that evening. Cho was looking forward to a quiet evening at home with a new book. Wiley planned to play video games. Teresa had plans to see Mark that night.

Patrick was tracking Mark's car on his laptop.

Austin PD was no longer working with the FBI on the DEA case, so Mark had resumed his ordinary duties as a corrupt police officer. _Worse than corrupt,_ Jane said to himself._ Criminal. Looks like I'll have to get something on him without the help of the FBI. That's nothing new._

Mark's car was literally all over the map within a fifty mile radius of Austin. Patrick suspected that he was dispatching Blake Association members who had become a liability or who had not demonstrated the willingness to do the dirtywork of the association. But he couldn't prove anything without tailing the bastard and taking photos. This was risky, and he wasn't good with a long-distance lens. _I can't wait until he decides to kill Teresa and catch him in the act._

_Cho. I need Cho._

He waited until Cho began putting papers in his briefcase. He followed him out the door of the bullpen and into the elevator, which was empty except for the two of them.

"Hey Cho, I need to ask you something."

"If you want me to do a stakeout at Johnson's house tonight, forget it."

"Cho, I need you. I can't do it alone."

"What are we supposed to do? Ambush them when they get home from their date? Boss will really love that."

"No, just see if she stays the night. If he comes home alone, watch who his visitors are."

"And then what?"

"I don't know. I'm still working on a plan. We need to get him on something before he attacks her."

"Like murder?"

"Like murder. I watched him kill a man. He's got a list of hits to make."

"I dunno, Jane. A sting operation requires backup. And there's no one else we can trust here."

"What if we got Fischer to help us? I know, I was against involving the FBI. But at the right moment she could provide the backup we need."

Cho looked doubtful.

"We have to do something that can't be planned perfectly, but will be reasonably sure of success."

"Jane. I know that you love her. And she loves you even if she's mad at you. The whole reason she's dating this guy is to make you jealous. Did you tell her what you saw? Could you get her to believe you and drop this guy?"

"I told her and she thought I was making up a wild story. She was almost triumphant to see that I was jealous. Well, I am jealous. And I'm insulted that she would choose a guy like him over me."

"You've never told her that you love her."

"Yes, I did, before I pretended to shoot her that time. She asked me if I meant what I said and I lied and told her I didn't remember."

"That was brilliant."

"Well, she's never said that she loves me. And I can't read her when she's shut down."

"It's obvious, Jane. It has been for years now."

"So, you're such an expert on love, what should I do now?"

"Tell her. Even if she laughs in your face. Be a man."

"OK, let's say I tell her and she says she doesn't love me and I've ruined her life, and she's decided to move on and I can't stop her?"

"She won't say that. But even if she did, we still have to protect her."

"So you'll do the stakeout with me?"

"Until we have a better plan."

"Thanks, Cho."

And they both got into Cho's car. Patrick entered Mark's address in the GPS.

The black Lexus sedan slipped almost invisibly into the gathering darkness.

Teresa had decided that tonight was the night. She had worn her sexiest clothes-she had been gradually changing her style, wearing shorter skirts, tighter tops, and higher heels. She even wore more makeup. She could tell that Mark appreciated it. After dinner, she applied some extra perfume in the ladies' room at the restaurant, and when she stepped into the car, a subtle but seductive fragrance filled the air. "You smell great," said Mark as he slipped into the driver's seat. They leaned toward each other and kissed. Then he started up the car.

She had a feeling of excitement that she hadn't felt in years. Finally, a man she was serious about who treated her like a queen and appreciated her for her mind _and_ her body. She felt powerful and full of sexual energy. It was as though everything she had felt physically for Patrick Jane over the course of twelve years suddenly transferred itself to this man, who was so different from Patrick. She wanted to see what it would be like, to feel male nakedness against her skin once again, to be ravished.

Mark was only too happy to oblige.

Upon arriving home, he took her coat and meticulously hung it in the closet next to his own. He then walked into the living room and poured two glasses of bourbon. She followed him and they sat on the couch. He began removing her shirt as he kissed her, the kisses placed lower and lower until they found her breasts held up in the lacy cups of her black transparent bra. She moaned and allowed him to continue, until his mouth reached her belly and she writhed with pleasure. He pulled off her short skirt and panties and she reached out to unbutton his pants. Suddenly his tongue was caressing her pubic area which she had just had waxed for the first time until it was as bare as a young girl's. His tongue began to explore the dampness inside her cleft and she shuddered with delight.

Neither of them had noticed the black Lexus sliding stealthily along the street across from the house.

Patrick and Cho exchanged glances. Cho steered the car around the corner and parked. They jumped out of the vehicle with guns drawn.

(Patrick had been practicing at the firing range in anticipation of this scenario.) They crept up to the house unseen.

Teresa and Mark had finished their drinks and were almost completely undressed. "Let's go to the bedroom," she whispered. He smiled and lifted her light body like a ballet dancer and deftly carried her up the stairs to his bedroom. He laid her gently on the king sized bed.

"Mmm," she murmured as he climbed above her.

Meanwhile, Patrick had picked the front door lock and slipped noiselessly in, followed by Cho. They heard the sounds of passion coming from the bedroom, which almost made Patrick lose his focus. _The bastard. I wish I could kill him._

Cho held up a warning finger to his lips. They eased toward the bedroom door, backs to the wall.

Teresa was almost fainting with the unaccustomed excitement. He had begun to make love to her in earnest, when he suddenly stopped. He gazed into her eyes. "Teresa, I love you."

"I love you too, Mark."

Patrick was seized with a terrible pain as he heard these words. Cho laid a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Mark was ready to do what he had intended to do ever since meeting Teresa. But first, he climaxed and shortly after, gasping, she followed.

Patrick felt a wave of nausea. Sweat trickled down his face.

Suddenly, Mark put his hands around Teresa's neck.

"Sorry, my dear." He began to squeeze the breath out of her. "I was starting to care for you. Too bad."

Amidst her sudden terror, Teresa's well-trained police instincts immediately kicked in and she fought him as hard as she could, trying to knee him in the groin, trying to poke him in the eyes, but he was too strong. Tears came to her eyes. _ Is this the way I'm going to die? How did I let this happen? Why couldn't I tell he was a killer? Jane was right! Oh God, Jane. _She prayed that someone would rescue her.

And at that moment, Patrick and Cho burst into the room, guns pointed at Mark.

"It's all over, Johnson," said Cho, with withering hatred.

For once in his glib life, Patrick could not say a word. He had promised Cho that he would let him take the lead and follow his orders.

Mark let go of Teresa and sprang up standing naked on the bed.

"Lie down with your hands behind your back," ordered Cho, "or I'll blow away the family jewels."

Mark obeyed.

Meanwhile, Teresa was almost unconscious. Fortunately, he had not succeeded in crushing her windpipe, but there were angry red finger imprints on her neck which would soon turn to purple bruises. Patrick rushed over to her. "Oh, Teresa, oh my God, Teresa…stay with me…you have to stay with me…" She couldn't speak and didn't move. He felt for her pulse and frantically punched 911 on his phone.

He gave them the address in a few terse sentences. "They're coming right away," he told her, his heart pounding with terror. "Hold on, Teresa. I love you. You've got to try. Please, Teresa." He laid his head on her belly. "Breathe. Breathe."

Cho had already cuffed Mark. In a matter of minutes, both the police and the FBI had arrived. Fischer leapt out of the van.

"I'll overlook this flagrant breach of policy on your part, Agent Cho, because of the successful collar. This man is behind the DEA murders. But you will receive an official reprimand."

"Sorry, ma'am," said Cho with a smirk. She turned and began issuing commands to the other agents who were swarming outside the house as a result of the call Cho had made to the FBI.

The ambulance shrieked to a halt and paramedics rushed upstairs to Teresa, who was unconscious. Her vital signs were weak, but they gave her oxygen and brought her out of the house on a stretcher. Patrick hurried behind them. As they were sliding the stretcher into the ambulance, Patrick gasped, "I'm coming with you. She's my wife," he lied. The paramedics nodded and he scrambled in and sat on the floor next to her. Her eyes were closed and she had a mask over her nose and mouth. He wondered if she would ever wake up. _What if she's in a coma? This is my fault. I should never have accepted that assignment with Krystal. I drove her into the arms of this monster._

He was sweating profusely and it took all of his strength not to break down. He took her small, white, limp hand and squeezed it. There was no answering squeeze. He was enveloped in pain and fear and sat paralyzed until the ambulance reached the hospital.

She was taken to intensive care and hooked up to machines and IVs. He could hardly bear to look. But he forced himself to be calm and ended up on a plastic chair near her bed. He tried to take deep breaths. He was afraid he would faint. One of the nurses, a sturdy young woman, approached him with pity in her eyes. "Can I get you something to drink, sir?"

With difficulty, Patrick focused his red and burning eyes on her. "A cup of tea. Please."

She came back with a cup of standard issue hospital teabag tea in a styrofoam cup. But he was grateful for it, and gripped the cup as though it were a magic talisman. Cho entered the room, having flashed his FBI badge at the nurses. He stood quietly next to Patrick and grasped his shoulder. This almost made Patrick cry- the bravery and expertise of his friend saved Teresa's life. Because she was still alive.

"Drink it," said Cho shortly.

Patrick took a couple of sips.

"That damn Fischer wants to reprimand me. I'll have to go soon. But I'll come back."

"Thanks, Cho. Thank you for saving her life. I was useless."

"Not useless. You came up with the plan."

"Cho. What if…"

"She's strong. She'll make it."

He left the room shortly after. Teresa was still lying in the hospital bed as if asleep, her long dark lashes brushing her white cheeks flecked with freckles. She was so small and frail looking that she almost resembled a child. Patrick knew that she had fought the bastard with everything she had. She might even have done some damage. And he didn't choke the life out of her. She was still breathing.

_Still breathing._

"Teresa. Wake up. Please wake up. I'll never leave you again."

But she lay there motionless except for the gentle up and down movement of her chest.

He buried his head in his hands.


	13. Chapter 13

13.

Teresa Lisbon, contrary to her appearance as she lay in the hospital bed, was not frail. Nor was she weak. Even in her unconscious state, something in her nature continued to fight for her life just as she had struggled to subdue Mark Johnson. After just under five hours, her eyes opened. The first sight to greet her was Patrick Jane, sitting forlornly near the bed, having finally succumbed to a restless sleep. It was close to dawn, but still dark.

As her eyes focused on Patrick, she felt a profound sadness and guilt. He had been sitting there all night, waiting for her to wake up. At least, it must have been all night. Her sense of the passing of time was skewed. The last thing she remembered was her desperate struggle against deadly hands closing upon her throat.

She could see even in the semi-dark of the room that his face was the same familiar face she had loved for so many years: the thick blond wavy hair, the pale sprinkling of beard, the well-shaped nose and chin. A handsome man. An athletic body, large capable hands. She felt an outpouring of renewed affection for him. But she didn't want to wake him. She lay in silence, thinking, wondering if there was still a chance for them to be a couple at last. Then she closed her eyes again. She felt tired and thought she might fall asleep.

When the faint light of dawn began to stream through the blinds of the single window, Patrick startled awake. Teresa's eyes were shut. No change. He sighed, got up, and walked over to the bed. He took her hand, bent down and kissed it. "Teresa, wake up. I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you, all the suffering I've caused you. I'm an arrogant, selfish bastard, but I'll try to become the man you deserve. I would be dead if I hadn't met you. You gave me a reason to live after my family was… you've always believed in me, always defended me, always forgiven me. Please at least let me prove myself to you."

She opened her eyes.

He couldn't speak. Instead, he threw his arms around her with a gasp.

"Teresa! Say something!" Then he realized that she couldn't speak with a tube in her throat. "Nurse!" he cried. "Nurse!" The young nurse hurried into the room. Teresa's eyes were open and she was trying to smile. The nurse removed the breathing tube. Teresa's throat was sore and dry and she tried to speak, but she could barely whisper. "Don't try to talk yet," said the nurse. She left the room and came back a short time later with some hot tea and hospital jello. "This will help your throat." Teresa smiled at Patrick and tried to say his name. He stroked her hair, then kissed her gently on the lips. "I love you so much. You don't really love him. You couldn't love him now." She shook her head. Patrick took out his phone and said, "Text me." She slowly typed out the words "I was stupid and careless. Not paying attention. Of course I don't love him. He's a clever actor, just like you said. Took advantage of me. Played on my vulnerability. I love you Patrick. Only you. I'm sorry I was so angry and unforgiving."

She handed the phone to him. He read it, and their eyes met in true understanding. "You don't have to be sorry, my Teresa. I'm the one who should be sorry. But it'll be different from now on. I'm going to take care of you after you leave the hospital. I insist. And when you're well again, we'll go on dates like normal people. After twelve years, it's strange to talk about dating. But we are different to each other now. There's still so much to discover about each other. So many things I want to share with you. Things I want to do for you, give you. Say you'll let me."

She smiled her lovely smile at him, her green eyes shining. The pink color was returning to her cheeks as she held out her arms to him.


	14. Chapter 14

14.

Patrick was true to his word, taking care of Teresa after the hospital released her to go home. He cooked throat-soothing delicacies for her and spoon fed her (though she didn't need to be spoonfed) mint chocolate chip ice cream. He even did laundry, vacuumed, and cleaned the kitchen and bathroom. He proved to be expert at all of these tasks, and Teresa said to herself, _I think I'll keep him. Or is he just on his good behavior because he feels guilty?_

**Patrick**

Patrick hoped that he would be able to continue pleasing her. He was still haunted by the memory of seeing her _in flagrante delicto _with Mark Johnson. _I'll never be able to get rid of that as long as I live. What could be worse than seeing the woman you love have an orgasm with another man? Unless you're a voyeur, and I'm no voyeur. Should we talk about it? No, better to say nothing. Maybe she doesn't know. What if she doesn't enjoy sex with me? She saw the evidence of my affair with Krystal, which isn't nearly as bad as what I saw-thank God she didn't catch us in the act. But I know it destroyed her even to see that. Sent her down the road to dating a psychopath. So all of this is my fault and I deserve to be punished by seeing what I saw._

He tried not to dwell on this anymore, but he was depressed and discouraged by the memory. He was convinced that it would taint any physical intimacy that lay ahead. If anything did lie ahead.

Although he desperately longed to make love to her, he knew that she was not ready, and for that matter, neither was he. Another memory from that fateful day was the sight of her naked and semi-conscious. Would he always associate her exquisite naked body with the angry red marks of that bastard's hands on her neck? _She probably doesn't know that I saw her naked. Best to say nothing. She'll only feel self-conscious and inhibited._

_We should pretend that we just met and just kiss and embrace fully clothed for a while. She could deal with that. And dating-great restaurants, movies, art galleries, nature walks, swimming, maybe even basketball games if she wants to. _Each of them would teach the other to enjoy new experiences. His mind was flooded with ideas. Gifts! She loved the first gifts he ever gave her: the origami frogs. Was she ready for the emerald necklace and earrings? If not: a diamond pendant? or was that too much like an engagement ring? Flowers were always safe…but he wanted to pamper her, to overwhelm her with something lavish that she'd never get for herself. _Time enough to think about that. Such a strange but beautiful situation we're in. How many other men have adored a woman for twelve years, even while grieving for a dead wife? Twelve years of close friendship, never crossing that line. _

Again, his fault. If revenge had not poisoned his mind, he might have moved on and started seeing her. Even though she was his boss. They might even have been married by now. Maybe even children. He knew she wanted children even though she had never confided this to him. But his hatred of Red John and his obsession with avenging his wife and child made him defer something that would have made them both happy. Not only that; it necessitated hiding his feelings for her in order to keep her safe from Red John, and of course that didn't work anyway. Worse still, vengeance required him to be cold, secretive, relentless, and controlling. The worst aspects of his character were a mask for the real man he was: loving, compassionate, generous, faithful. He allowed his reckless desire for Red John's blood to drive him to have sex with a woman he didn't love in the hope that she would lead him to the serial killer. The only thing this accomplished was to wound Teresa profoundly. If he could only erase the past! If only he could go back to the day he came to the CBI and she let him look at the Red John case files. That day his arrogance had caused a cop to punch him in the nose, after which she gently, tenderly led him away to nurse his physical wound while beginning to nurse his hidden spiritual agony, even though she didn't know it. The day he began to love her.

These thoughts were causing him to despair. He reminded himself in vain that her great kindness had always allowed her to forgive even his worst transgressions. This compassion had bonded him to her throughout the years, and he knew he'd taken advantage of it. He was ashamed of his outrageous behavior which had so often led to reprimands and extra paperwork from her superiors. The one thing about her that he could not understand was her faith in God, which led to her faith in him and enabled her to forgive him with the hope and belief that his basic goodness would someday triumph over his dark side. She never approved of his desire to kill Red John. To kill anyone for any reason other than self-defense or to protect the lives of others was a sin. Yet she was eventually reluctantly persuaded that killing Red John was the only way to stop him from murdering more innocent people.

Patrick wished that he could believe in God, but a God who could allow his wife and child to be murdered and let their killer go free was a God he wanted nothing to do with. There was no evidence of anything after death. But then why was he driven to avenge his dead loved ones, who could no longer feel anything? It was for himself and himself alone that he really sought revenge. He was coming to this painful realization only now, more than two years after he'd killed Red John. And even if the murder charges had been dropped, he was still guilty of murder. Could Teresa really forgive a murderer? Could she still believe him to be capable of acts of kindness to expiate his crime?

These were the thoughts that occupied his mind as he took his daily walk through the streets of Austin. Teresa was at home, still asleep. It was early on a Saturday morning, and the sun was already bright. Patrick picked up some croissants for breakfast, then stopped at a florist, where he composed a bouquet of flowers, taking care to contrast colors, heights, foliage, and size. He had a not inconsiderable talent for drawing and painting which he had neglected for years. It found expression now in flowers. He chose Teresa's favorites first, which he knew to be pink roses and peonies, white lillies, and blue hydrangea and campanula. He added yellow chrysanthemums and white gardenias, his own favorites. The result was a bouquet so lovely that he decided he would photograph it when he got home. _Home. _That's how he'd come to think of Teresa's apartment.

**Teresa**

She arrived home from the hospital after two days with a sore throat and little appetite. She was worried about her vulnerability and how she'd allowed a killer to get intimate with her, not suspecting anything. (But if she ever got romantic with Jane, she would still be intimate with a killer. Just not one who wanted to kill _her_.) She kept going over scenarios in her head and wondering why alarms didn't go off in her head. Was she no longer good at detective work? Or was her desire to get back at Jane making her blind and careless to what was obvious to Jane about Mark. _Didn't I learn anything from his revenge obsession? I was also possessed by a vengeful spirit. That was the real reason I dated Mark. Revenge on Jane for dating Krystal. And it was more than just the dating. It was the sex that was important. I had to even the score and show him that I didn't care if he slept with yet another awful woman. So I slept with an awful man. Intelligent course of action. Some cop I am. _She got up from the bed and scowled at herself in the mirror. _But I deserve to have some fun. Why should he get to date and not me?_

_You really know how to pick 'em, Teresa._

What amazed her was that Patrick was wonderful. He was doing everything around the house for her, running errands, being thoughtful in ways she'd never seen before. He hadn't tried to push her into anything, knowing how severe her recent trauma was. She wished she could remember more of what happened-it was all a blur to her now. She remembered her feeling of elation during sex with a man she believed to be genuinely in love with her. And then what had begun so ecstatically had turned so quickly into terror and incredulity. She dimly remembered Cho ordering Mark to lie face down and allow himself to be cuffed. She had been gasping for breath, then lapsing in and out of consciousness. Just a few more seconds and she would have died. But Cho and Jane had rescued her. She was humiliated that they knew how careless she had been. And Jane had come up close to her and must have seen her naked. What if he had heard the sounds of their lovemaking? He didn't deserve to be punished that way…at least, not if he loved her and was contrite about Krystal.

Whatever the case might be, they had both witnessed evidence of sex with another partner. Why was it so much easier to get romantic with someone other than the one person you truly loved? _ I wish I could talk about it with him. I just can't. It's too hard, too awful. Let what was past stay in the past. _Teresa tried to get up and out of her bed, but she was weary. She wished Jane would come back. She wanted to ask him if he would get into the bed with her so that she could feel his body next to hers, so that they could finally embrace and stop pretending. Her recently awakened sexual desire made her want to know what his skin felt like, what his lips tasted like, the lips she had wanted for so many years. She wanted them to entwine together the way they should have a long time ago. She felt regret that they hadn't had sex years ago when she was younger, fresher, more beautiful. His most recent bed partner had been a woman of barely thirty. Could she compare?

Lying on the bed again, she examined her arms and legs for signs of sagging and wrinkles. Nothing. Only smooth, soft skin without a blemish, pale white Irish skin sprinkled with freckles. She inspected her hands. Smooth, graceful, with long tapering fingers and manicured nails. She couldn't bear to look at her face in the mirror for fear of seeing the expression lines that time had gently imprinted on her cheeks. This woman, who only grew more beautiful with each passing year, was afraid that she wasn't beautiful enough for Patrick. She didn't know that no other woman could even attract his attention. She also didn't know that he loved more than just her exterior: he had been studying her, reading her, longing for her for ten years. And then he ran away, and her absence in that two year chapter in his life was, as he wrote to her, "strange and sad." When she had read these words, she lingered over them, reading again and again. Was it true, then, that he still cared for her? And then she discovered that she was first on his list of demands.

She'd been so angry at his presumption that she would stop her whole life, drop everything, and follow him to Texas. Yet after she pondered it for a while, she realized that yes, he wanted her there for selfish reasons, but he also wanted her to have an FBI job because he wanted her to be happy, and he knew she'd never be happy as a small-town sheriff. When she became aware of his effort to do something important for her to atone for the pain he'd caused her, she had softened toward him and wished she could tell him how grateful she was. But by then she was dating Mark Johnson, determined to get Jane out of her system.

She was feeling too many things- guilt, regret, despair, unease, shyness-to continue longing for Patrick to come home. She lay back on her pillows and sighed. And then she heard Patrick open the front door and come into the house. She listened for a while as he moved around the kitchen, taking out plates and glasses to set the table, running water in the sink, and then she slowly slid out of the bed. She was wearing a short black silk and lace nightgown. After padding barefoot down the stairs, she quietly crept into the dining room, hoping to surprise him. His back was to her as he arranged flowers in a large glass vase. Suddenly he turned to face her with a smile she'd never seen. It wasn't the one he smiled when he was flirting, teasing, or trying to be charming. It was a smile of great tenderness and understanding.

"You look so beautiful," he said, holding her in his gaze.

"You do too." Her voice was soft, hoarse, almost a whisper: its full strength had not yet returned, and she was in his thrall, unable to take her eyes off him. His dissheveled blond hair had grown longer than it had been in CBI days. He still had the light beard he had grown on the island. It suited him. He was dressed in a clean light blue shirt and jeans with an old sport jacket. The years had also been kind to Patrick: his blue eyes were surrounded by small wrinkles which only made him more alluring. He still retained the firm and muscular body of youth. He stood glowing in a shaft of bright sunshine streaming in from the kitchen window.

"Do you... you want to eat?" She felt something leap inside her.

"Plenty of time for that. First I want to…"

"Jane! Patrick…would you come with me upstairs… and get into bed with me?" She barely had enough breath to say it. It had taken all her courage.

He took a few steps toward her, his face serious now. "Are you sure, Teresa?"

"Yes. I want you…Patrick."

He took her hand and they walked up the stairs together.


	15. Chapter 15

15.

I could draw a discreet curtain over the scene that followed and allow the lovers some much-deserved privacy, but this part of the story must be told, since our hero and heroine have endured so much adversity.

They were finally in bed together, Teresa in her black nightgown, Patrick having removed all of his clothing except his briefs. At first, they did nothing more than embrace tightly, for a long time, as though trying to make up for all the missed embraces of the past twelve years. Then began the kisses, first on parts of their bodies other than their faces, and then culminating in a kiss which like the embrace was long and deep to make up for all the missed kisses, all the missed embraces, kisses and opportunities during the past twelve years. They said nothing, only allowed their mouths to deepen the embrace in which their bodies were entwined.

They said nothing, but they inwardly grieved the time and opportunities lost.

Several minutes passed this way before their blood heated to the point where they could no longer contain themselves, and their lust took over, and then came sweet sexual release.

Patrick's arms encircled Teresa's body as she lay on her right side. For a moment he wasn't sure if he was awake or dreaming. She was awake, her large sea colored eyes gazing far away, her pale, full breasts facing upwards as she turned over on her back. Now he was the only man allowed to see them, to touch and stroke them as he had only minutes before. He only regarded them lovingly now as they rose and fell with each breath she took.

So this was what it was like to be happy.

He had been so unhappy and full of longing for so long. Why hadn't they done this before? Why had they both been so stubborn and afraid? Was it really Red John's fault, or could they have been bold even while he was still alive? After all, the killer knew about their mutual feelings. And he got hold of Teresa that one time when he tased her and painted his mark on her face using the blood of that poor bastard Partridge who worked in CBI forensics. Let her live in order to taunt him. Meaning he could have her any time he wanted, and next time he'd kill her. Patrick had made sure there was no next time, but that meant vigilance.

"Teresa…" He stroked her wavy abundant hair and gently pulled her face toward his. "What are you thinking?"

"I was so afraid before…that you wouldn't think I was as sexy as Krystal. That I was too old. I know it's stupid. But I had to get past that. I know you love me for who I am. And I'm also thinking…I wish we hadn't stayed apart for so long. At the CBI it was unavoidable-we had to be professional and there was also Red John to protect me from. It wasn't our fault." She paused. "I'm sorry I tried to make you jealous. That was very childish of me. I could have approached you to talk about our fight, and then we could have saved so much time. And I wouldn't have risked my life."

"We'll make up for lost time. And don't blame yourself for not seeing through Johnson. He's the most clever psychopath besides Red John that I've ever seen."

Teresa cast down her green-eyed gaze. "I was worried that you could never love me as much as you loved Angie. That you'd always compare me to her."

"Teresa! Please believe me. I love you more than anyone, even Angie. I still remember her fondly, as I also remember Charlotte. I still love them, but they're gone forever, and you're here. You're here, Teresa. And so much sexier than Krystal. So much more beautiful than any woman. And braver, wiser, sweeter. I don't deserve you-"

"Don't say that. You deserve me. You've suffered for me. I knew from the first moment I met you that you were a good, generous, loving man underneath your sorrow and obsession. And if I could just help you get through it all and be that man again…"

"If there's any decency in me, it's all because of you." He reached down with his mouth and kissed her again.

Teresa took his left hand in hers.

"You took off your ring," she said.

"Yes. It was time. And I hope that before too long you'll let me put a new ring on your finger." Her look of alarm caused him to add hastily, "but not right away. We have to date first and see if we have anything in common." He grinned his teasing grin. She smiled shyly, her cheeks pink.

"And now…croissants for breakfast, coffee for you, tea for me."

"And the incredible flowers you bought for me-no one ever gave me such wonderful ones before."

"I want to spend the rest of my life giving you flowers."

"You're so sweet. What can I give you?"

"Your love is the most precious thing, and you've already given it. Let me make you happy. That's all I want."

"You've already made me happy!" She encircled him with both arms.

And breakfast was again forgotten for another hour.


End file.
